


Crimson Aphrodisiac

by Blacktissue



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anal, Blood Kink, Blood Play, Blow Jobs, Criminal!Eddie, Degradation, Denial, Dirty Talk, Domination, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Feminization, Gore, Graphic Description, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Law and Criminology, Lawyer!Waylon, M/M, Misogyny, Modern Era, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outlast: Whistleblower, Power Play, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Slurs, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Waylon is probably as mad as Eddie in this, When I can be bothered lol, broken relationships, but it comes in bursts, erotic asphyxiation, outlast - Freeform, you get it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-06-14 04:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blacktissue/pseuds/Blacktissue
Summary: **ON HIATUS DUE TO PERSONAL CONCERNS**Waylon Park is a highly successful lawyer, known greatly for his desirable abilities and greatly credited for them. A family man to be, excited for whatever life may throw into his presumably capable grasp.That is until the likes of "Eddie Gluskin", and his beyond peculiar case shudder the not-so-sturdy walls of Waylon's stability, and the young lawyer's world begins to crumble below him.His wife, his sanity... all in exchange for one deadly and seemingly hopeless case.Until eventually, Mr. Park's true colours bloom...And they're not pretty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've written these fucking notes three fucking times. This website HATES me. 
> 
> Anyway... 
> 
> You guys seemed to really enjoy my last Outlast fic of this pairing, so I figured why not write another, this time it's gonna be a long ass smut and gore fest! 
> 
> And by long, I mean fairly long. I've written 8 chapters and I'm not even remotely close to the half way point. So yeah. 
> 
> The first few chapters are mostly context, but once Gluskin's in the game shit starts to get nasty ;).
> 
> So tell me what you think when you're done, I love this concept and wanted to write this for a long time, so here we are. 
> 
> Oh, and enjoy the wholesomeness while it lasts. 
> 
> Have fun.

 

Waylon Park's little office was as neat as a button: shaped as a horseshoe, softly curved with a window dominating the majority of a flat wall. It was open just a touch to let in a kiss of spring air, fresh and cool as water on a sweltering day. Sounds of the hustling city were almost inaudible from his office, apart from the occasion wail of a siren and passing cars.

The room itself was a duck egg blue, books and files stacked, piled on various bookshelves and stools, the spine always facing outward of course.

He was situated in a black, leather office chair, not of his choice. His pen wondered the air as Waylon leant on his elbow uncaringly, attempting to complete another unfinished case report.

If there's one thing that Waylon appreciated the most, it was order. Order and peace and quiet.

And unfortunately, Waylon Park was not currently graced with either...

" _Eddie Gluskin,"_

A strong hand pressed a spilling, blue file atop of Park's desk, a palm slapping against the slippery cover as it was so. The shudder of the impact toppled Waylon's little succulent plant, depositing freckles of dirt on the desk, forcing the man to divert his attention away from his (very important) business.

He peered from behind his reading glasses at the highly strung man before him with increasing interest as he inconsiderately continued.

"Defendant accused of first degree murder. Thirteen suspected victims, mostly - if not entirely - female, mutilated and mangled, some beyond identification," he paused, pressing a ridged finger to the blue file. "Involvement in Murkoff Corporation."

Waylon blinked.

"Miles, I-"

"Listen, Way. I know what you're gonna say but please, hear me out." The dark brunette tugged an office chair beneath his legs and flopped atop of it, ignoring it's creaking cry of dismay.

Waylon was thoughtful for a moment, placing his pen beside his fallen plant before scooping it into its previous position on his tidy desk.

"Firstly, It's Mr. Park to you, we're at work."

"Really, Waylon? I've known you since we were _this_ big-"

"Secondly," Waylon continued, disregarding Miles. "You know as well as I do that I simply can't take on another case. It's just not possible at the moment. Not with the whole Frank Manera fiasco."

"At the moment."

"Hm?"

Miles shifted forward. "You said at the moment. I can wait. Weeks, months..."

Waylon drew a tired sigh, dragging slender fingers through his fine blonde hair.

"O-Or you could just overrule it. Close the case again. We all know he's a killer, Way." Miles continued to plead, placing both hands upon the blue file, subconsciously drawing Waylon's attention to it.

"You do realize that's not my job. I'm supposed to be a defence attorney, Upshur. Anyway, didn't you say something about Manera's involvement in Murkoff being substantial evidence to "take the bastards down"?" Park quoted, giving Miles an unconvinced stare.

"The witness was pronounced criminally insane only hours before the hearing was supposed to be. Inconclusive. But you know that as well as I do." The man spoke with spite on lips, hatred crinkling his triangular nose.

Waylon tutted with a shake of his head. "And yet, I still work on his case for you."

"That's what I'm saying, don't. It's inconclusive. No need. This guy however..." Miles pushed the thick folder towards the other.

"Miles, no-"

"Miles, _yes_." The brunette flicked open the cover page of the file after moistening his index on his tongue. "Remember right at the beginning of this, when I was telling you about that Jeremy Blaire guy? A real corporate cock-sucker, we reckon he experiments on the criminally insane. Brainwash."

 _"We?_ How did _you_ deduce that?" Park spoke with little enthusiasm, scanning over some hand written, some typed documents that Miles had written, prime focus being Murkoff and Mr. Jeremy Blaire.

"This motherfucker right here," His fingers tacked against a passport photograph that he'd fished out of his pockets and unfolded, of a rather deranged, deformed looking man. "Rick Trager. Real chummy with Blaire, or used to be before he was tossed into the loony bin. He was an executive, like Blaire."

Park furrowed his brow at Miles' creative wording, but nodded for him to continue.

"That's when he got real fucked up, baby. Riot of 2013, September 16th. Trager was not only slicing up patients and Murkoff personnel left, right and centre, but he spouted a lotta shit about Billy Hope."

Now that was a name Waylon had heard Miles bang on about until the cows came home. Miles Upshur was a bit of a conspiracy theorist, to say the very least. William Hope had been the heart of many of the cases that Mr. Upshur dug up for him, and Waylon wasn't sure to what extent he believed in the supernatural (far less than Miles, that much was obvious), but years of experience meant he knew how to sniff out a suspicious case when one came his way. Billy Hope was indeed that case.

"In court, too. Had some undercover journalist as a witness, shook like a leaf the whole and topped himself by the end of the week. Once again, Murkoff slipped away, claiming the journalist was insane." Miles explained, finger still pressed against this Trager guy.

Waylon was thoughtful once more. "How does this tie in at all, Miles?"

Miles grinned, tapping his temple knowledgeably. He flipped the first page away, running his hand over the small mound of paper to spread out the various photographs, letters, documents and medical notes. He fished out an uncoloured mugshot.

"This is Eddie Gluskin."

He slipped the small photographs under Waylon's nose.

Park felt his stomach plummet to his heels.

The man that stared back at him caused an unholy shudder to creep through every fiber of his being.

From dark, sunken sockets were a pair of eyes, whites far too dark. He didn't need pigment to identify that the man had two hemorrhages, a little worse in the right than the left. The man's irises however, appeared almost a stunning white in the photo, bright and sickening. His features were harsh, hard, skin almost leathery looking and littered with deep cuts, scrapes and wounds. His hair, undoubtedly as raven black as it appeared in the photo, was shaven cleanly at the sides, swept back along the middle of his head and falling back down the other side.

But what stirred Waylon the most, what induced an overpowering, eerie chill down Waylon's spine was the lip splitting smile the man possessed. His teeth bared like an animal, beaming like the psychopath he undoubtedly was. There was no emotion behind that smile. Not even a little.

"He looks delightful." Park said, sarcasm masking his discomfort.

Miles hummed in agreement. "I know. He's as loony as he looks. Trager had even mentioned this guy in court, said he was fucked up real bad, said Murkoff did it. The guy you're looking at right now..."

Waylon stole another glance at the photo.

"... _He_ was in the belly of the beast, my friend."

 

 

"You're going to accept that case?! Waylon, are you _insane_?"

Lisa had turned her head away from the bubbling stew pot that delightfully simmered on the stove to give a very cold glare to Waylon, who was sat contently at the kitchen table, chin propped up in his hands that cupped his own face.

Home really was Waylon's haven. Work didn't usually follow the lawyer here. It was a safe place. His wife was here. The kitchen was one of his favorite rooms, where Lisa had tried to teach him to cook on several different occasions, all of which failed miserably. It didn't matter how many times Lisa explained what different utensils did, it just never sunk into Way's skull. But he knew he made some mean instant noodles, that was for sure.

He sighed heavily. "It would only be for Miles. And the extra cash. We could do with some more of that."

She bore back at him, holding a skeptical gaze and stirring the stew gently.

"It smells delicious, baby-"

"Don't you change the subject, Way. I'm not happy about this." Lisa gave a frown and returned her attention to the stove.

Shoving his chair from under him, Park stood steadily, before lazily sauntering over to his spouse, and wrapping a gentle arm around her slender waist.

Despite her temporary displeasure in Waylon, she smiled softly behind a wisp of hair, continuing to stir with a little resentment.

"It really does smell wonderful, dear." Waylon cooed into the nape of her neck, inhaling the sweet smell of Shea butter shampoo.

Lisa hummed, a little unimpressed by Waylon's flattery. "Thank you, Way. Now, go entertain yourself for twenty minutes, it'll be done by then. We can talk about this over dinner."

The blonde nodded, kissing his lady's cheek tenderly before  
moving away, a hand gently placed on her hip for as long as he could before she was out of reach.

The two did indeed talk about it. Sat opposite from one and other, Waylon almost begging Lisa to believe in him, trust that it was going to all be fine. Much like he did with most other cases, much like he did with Manera's case.

Lisa had bought up Miles once, questioned his deep interest in the very criminally insane, asked why he always laid the work upon Way. Lisa loved Miles dearly, and vice versa, but Waylon knew there was always slight distaste, even in those warm summer evenings sat on Miles' dad's old car, drinking luke warm beers as spunky teenagers. They never questioned where Miles had got the beer from. They just enjoyed it while they could.

Waylon had, for the most part, always played it safe. His soul lit up when faced with danger, and he craved the adrenaline - but he didn't have the balls to be anything more dangerous than a lawyer. He wanted to work with criminals, loved his job. Loved that he could be so close to a murderer, but they could not touch a hair on Waylon's body.

Miles however, practically _got off_ on danger. If Way was an adrenaline junkie, Miles had to fucking breathe the stuff. He too had wanted to be a lawyer, but never graduated, even after two attempts. So he played the cards he'd dealt, and became a criminal profiler. He adored the nitty-gritty details, wanted to be up close and personal with the crime scenes and criminals. A punch to the face was another trophy for the man.

"He's not a great influence on you, Way." Lisa would always say, but Waylon knew that deep down, Lisa wouldn't have the eccentric profiler any other way. Hell, the two even had coffee mornings every other Wednesday to catch up in the absence of Waylon (who was always invited, but always declined).

 

  
Waylon's belly was full of beef and leek stew, and as always, he savored every mouthful of his wife's gourmet cooking. She really was a gift.

The two would always discuss difficult matters on a full stomach, Lisa insisted that it saved the risk of arguments. Not that the two really ever argued.

She huffed contemplatively. "You'll never be home."

After cursing himself for zoning out again, Way arched his brows at his wife.

"I'm always home, every night. You know I would never let you down like that." Waylon encouraged, offering a sympathetic smile.

"But it's so late. Even today, you're home early and it's already ten by the time we've eaten. And when you're not early, I'm in bed by the time you're home, and you're gone by the time I wake up. It's lonely, Way." Lisa didn't look at Waylon, but she allowed her small hands to be held by his.

Waylon's heart bled for his dear wife. He knew she was lonely, but didn't know how to fix it. She saw her friends throughout the week, entertained herself with her work which she did from home. But it was never enough, and Waylon couldn't blame her.

"Baby, I'm sorry." Way was quiet in thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what," he watched her perk up a little. "I can Skype you during my lunch break-"

"Waylon..."

"No, hear me out. I promise you. It will help. On Sunday I promise it'll just be me and you, I won't touch my laptop all day. And I'll start work a little later, so I can hold you as you wake up." Waylon said, practically swooning. Lisa cracked a little grin.

"God, you're so corny, Way." Her smile had bloomed a little as she looked back up at her man. Waylon smiled back.

"Okay, fine. You do the case. But keep your promise, pretty boy." She weakly threatened, cocking a neat brow at Waylon.

Waylon beamed, and after dinner reminded himself to text Miles.

 

 

Waylon Park wasn't always fond of coffee shops yet in an alien place, they were always the thing he would find first.

There was a specific and comfortable aesthetic about a coffee shop in which he had seen trend with the majority he'd been in. They were always cosy, more like a lounge than a restaurant.

Much like where he was currently sat. He had chosen his preferred spot, snug next to the window on a neat little stool with a mocha in between his long fingers. He strummed them along the side of his cup, right next to where the barista had sharpied his name on wrong by shoving another extra ' _e_ ' at the end.

The was no hustle in the small coffee shop, it was almost still, and Waylon recognized the music that hummed softly from the speakers. It was " _Better Together"_ by Jack Johnson. Lisa had always loved Jack Johnson, through her teen years to now. They'd danced to this song on their wedding day and Waylon could remember her eyes, sparkling and glassy with tears of joy. He could remember her little feet tacking against the floor as they swayed to the acoustic guitar.

Tucking his head down, Waylon smiled subtly at the fond memory, his toes tapping in his shoes. He sometimes wondered what he did to deserve his dearest wife.

The ding of the door opening drew Waylon's head up towards the sound in curiosity.

It was Miles ( _finally_ ), and he was beaming.

"You," He spoke as he approached, tugging a stool from under the table that Waylon sat at with a squeak, and setting his behind on it.

"You are an angel, Way." Upshur praised, smile ever present. "I cannot thank you enough."

Waylon grinned a little too proudly at the praise, taking a quick sip of his mocha to mask it.

"Well, you know. I try." He preened with staged self righteousness.

Miles chuckled, shaking his head.

"It won't be easy, Way. You've not even read the files yet and you've already accepted." The profiler had straightened up a touch, smile fading.

Waylon pursed his lips into a frown. Of course. That was foolish of him. "Not yet, I can decline right now if I wanted to." He stated with little confidence.

"That would be great but..." Miles looked down, picking dirt from his nail. "I've already contacted the prison. They want you there tomorrow."

Waylon's eyes blew wide at Miles confession. "Miles! I can't, I promised Lisa I would be... Where? Why? Miles, I can't..."

"Chill, man. I've organized you a plane ticket. It's in Marion, Illinois. You'll be fine, and I'm going with you."

Waylon's hands ran through his hair tugging a little as they reached the crown. He groaned aloud, shaking his head. "You coul- _should_ have given me just a little more notice, Miles. Just a little. Where are we staying?"

Miles didn't seem phased by Waylon's discomfort, as he spoke a short, "Motel."

Way bore evils at the man opposite him. " _Motel_? Miles, we won't have a car."

"I rented one, relax dude."

Waylon drew a deep breath through his nostrils, blinking hard.

He pushed the chair from under him, abandoning his beverage and rising to his feet.

"Hey, where are you going?" Miles called, quick to mirror Waylon.

"Calling Lisa. She's not going to be impressed with you, Upshur."

"She never is."

 

 

She wasn't. Nor was she impressed with her significant other.

Waylon couldn't say he blamed her.

The evening had rolled by, time sweeping it away and tugging on the sun to sleep behind it's bed in the hills. The blonde lay in bed, propped up against a puffy pillow. Lisa slept gracefully, her head upon his chest, arm holding his side and legs entangled with Waylon's. She was heavier in sleep, the weight of her head and arm kept Waylon from moving without stirring the young woman.

Not that Waylon particularly wanted to move.

Lisa's body was sandwiched between Waylon and the spilling blue file, that the lawyer had been intently reading for the past hour and forty-five minutes.

Only now had the dread and doubt began to kick in, and boy did it ever hit him like a freight train.

This man, Eddie Gluskin, was insane in every sense of the word.

The case seemed damn near impossible to win, Waylon knew that, but he wasn't here to win the case. In fact, Way was more than certain he would loose.

No, winning this wasn't the goal.

Destroying Murkoff. That was the ultimate aim. Loosing a couple of battles wouldn't mean that he and Miles would loose the war.

Eddie's case had been closed and reopened twice, both left without a substantial verdict. The man was criminally insane, that much was confirmed, but he was clever, artful. He knew what he was doing, could cause a crime scene and leave without a trace. In fact, it seemed he had done just that in many cases.

The witness had been a previous worker at Mount Massive Asylum, Andrew, was his name. He'd supposedly been working in the field of medical and psychological maintenance, but Miles had drawn a harsh line through that in deep red pen, and wrote " _BRAINWASHER_!!!". Once again, Waylon wasn't sure to which extent he agreed. He couldn't say.

Andrew claimed that he had seen what Gluskin did, what he could do, what he threatened to do. What he had done to other variants.

Waylon believed Gluskin was a lunatic, that's how he ended up there in the first place, but believed Andrew was talking utter bullshit. But, he knew damn well that the jury would eat out of this guy's hand for being a smart cookie, sounding like he knows what he's on about.

After every page, Waylon's attention would subconsciously return to the mugshots of the man. He would just look, no inner thoughts, no further evaluation. Just look.

He would sacrifice a moment to scan over his harsh face, ridged with scars. His thick neck continued into broad shoulders that disappeared from the photo.

Way's eyes flicked to a bundle of crime scene photographs, his fingers scooping one up to rest in his palm.

It was of a woman, Waylon had concluded. She lay awkwardly in a blood stained bathtub, arms folded behind her arched back, both legs severed above the knee and looked as if they hadn't finished spewing, despite being in death. She wore nothing. Her head rolled back, face caked in thick, sheening blood. One of her eyes were beaten in - or torn out - Waylon couldn't tell, but it had closed and swollen over like a pink balloon. The other eye was blue, but seemed colourless and dried out for being open for so long. Her bottom lip was drooping, slobbering blood, top lip split in two and staining her teeth. Her nose was shattered.

The sight made Waylon's toes curl in utter disgust.

And through all the blood and the dirt, not a single hand print. No footsteps. No trace.

A little squeeze to his side caused Waylon to draw his attention to the small body that laid across his chest. Her eyelids fluttered as she peeped up at her husband, who had began to reassemble the documents back into their file.

"Honey, you're still awake?" She spoke ever so softly, her voice a little croaky.

The contrast between the vile, grotesque photographs and the beautiful demeanor of his sleepy wife seemed almost a sin, as if the two shouldn't ever been within such close proximity. It made Waylon ill.

Way offered a sweet smile. "I'm going to sleep now, sweetheart." He confirmed.

Lisa hummed, curling herself into Waylon a little more. "Turn off the lamp whilst you're at it." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

With that, the blonde scooped up the file and plopped it onto the floor beside him, flicked off the lamp and covered the slumbering body with the duvet.

He slept contently that night.

 

 

 

  



	2. Inmate 196.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo.
> 
> I know, it's literally only been a few days since my last update, but fuck it. 
> 
> By the way, this chapter is pretty boring and poorly written because basically I couldn't be fucked and I just wanted to get to the interesting bits. 
> 
> So yeah, this is all just context. It's gets more interesting nearer the end, promise. 
> 
> So please, stick around. Chapter 3 isn't insanely boring, in fact I think it only gets more interesting from this point on. 
> 
> I'm currently finishing up chapter 9, and chapter 10 is gonna be wild lmao (I hope).
> 
> So yeah, try to enjoy this one. I read over this and was seriously thinking of rewriting it but you know, effort. 
> 
> A boring (but fairly important) chapter ahead.

Waylon had stirred his sleeping wife with a kiss to her forehead, in a weak bid to escape the entanglement of her porcelain arms around his body.

The light peeped through a tiny gap in the curtains, where Waylon hadn't drawn them properly in hopes that the meek light would rouse him in time for his early morning.

Lisa shifted, outstretching her limbs and thus freeing her husband, who slinked from the heavy duvet and too his feet.

Upon opening her eyes, Lisa frowned a little. "Is it that time already?"

Waylon gave a sympathetic half smile. "Not yet, sweetheart. But Miles wants me outside his place in forty minutes."

His wife groaned, but it was short lived and fruitless. "What's the rush? Got another woman you're dying to see?"

Waylon chuckled. "Several, actually."

Lisa rolled onto her front, giggling to herself as she did so. "Okay hotshot, I'm sure you do."

Waylon truly believed that there were no words in the English language that could describe his undying love for his wife, and the amount of trust that weaved its way into that. Cheating was never even a consideration. They knew all too well that they were both quite attractive people, but never had either of them desired to be with anyone else. Way had known that from the moment the two had met.

The lawyer smirked, inwardly contemplative.

With less than a moments thought, Way gave in, crawling chastely atop of Lisa and pecking her head. "I suppose we have a few minutes."

 

 

 

The air was chillier than usual as Waylon embraced his wife outside his open front door and made for the worn down porch steps.

He held a messenger bag, bigger that one would usually be. A duffle bag, he supposed. Miles had concluded that they would be gone for no longer than two days in total, which Waylon was more than thrilled about.

Miles' home was in walking distance, but it made for a brisk pace if he'd wanted to be less than twenty minutes late. So sensibly he'd hopped in the car, knowing that if he'd leave it at Miles', Lisa could come and pick it up if needs be.

He parked in the street's small car park, seeing as Miles lived within an apartment block. Parking alone had taken several minutes longer than it should have done, on account of the many people living in the area.

As Way opened the main door, a tanned hand grasped the front of his shirt, continuing to strut forward in an assertive manner and dragging a stumbling lawyer behind him.

"Waylon, you're fifteen minutes late." The man, who turned out to be Miles of course, scolded without even turning to look at Waylon.

Miles sported a rucksack, which looked about twice as light as Waylon's. He had no doubt that Miles had only bought his laptop, files, charger and toothbrush. It wasn't like Miles really ever changed his clothes anyway, not unless prompted to.

Waylon embraced his lecture, allowing himself to be dragged across the deserted car park (luckily, it was a little too early for most people), by a particularly highly strung Miles.

"Man, I'm sorry. Hey, could you please let go of-"

Miles span on his heel, stopping dead to deliver a set of evils at Waylon. The hand that held the material loosened. "Airport."

Waylon glanced quickly to his left, then back to Miles, only to see that he had continued to march towards his red jeep.

There were things that Way didn't question about Miles sometimes. His eccentric outbursts were one of them.

Trotting after the profiler, Waylon called out a casual, "What time does the flight leave?"

Miles whipped a pair of keys from his jeans, poking a button and hearing a _bleep_ from his red jeep in response. "Fifty minutes. Takes twenty minutes to get there if we follow the speed limit..." Miles turned his head to smirk at Waylon, "...Ten minutes if we don't."

 

  
How in God's sweet heaven they didn't get busted for speeding was absolutely beyond Waylon.

They had taken to the highway, Miles' foot on the accelerator for most of the time. Park had subtly been clinging to his seat for the majority of the ride.

But Miles was right, which Way was certain he would rub in his face later on.

They jogged idly to the main entrance upon the arrival of their destination, Way flashing an apologetic smile at the security guards at the door who looked as if they couldn't care less at the abrupt intrusion, and by the time the two had boarded the plane they had been only a little late, but barely venturing into the danger zone.

Predictably, Miles had opted to sit at the back of the plane so that he could conspire, no doubt. Although, he seemed very particular about not sitting at the window side. Way had rolled his eyes at this, and accepted his window seat.

"You remembered the files?" Miles asked abruptly as they had seated themselves.

"Obviously." Waylon responded matter-of-factly.

The other man tutted at this. "Hey, I have every right to double check. Remember when we went on a ski trip and you forgot your-"

"- _Yes_ , Miles I remember. No need to tell me every time we go somewhere."

 

  
The two fell quiet for the majority of the flight, Miles' near constant twitchiness irking Waylon's body to stay awake. He wasn't tired, but he could have napped had he wanted to, if Miles had let him.

Waylon glanced down to his fingertips that rested upon his leg. He partially had wished that he'd slipped the mugshot into his wallet, just to glance at it now and again, remember what he was going to have to deal with. There was still time to decline, it wasn't like Miles had done the paperwork, the confirming.

But Waylon was only fooling himself. He knew that he would take the case. Maybe as an act of self indulgence; perhaps he did get off on the danger a little bit. Park chewed the inside of his cheek, stealing a glance at the man beside him.

Miles bounced his leg rather frantically, gnawing on his ring finger. He was nervous. Whether it was the case or the plane, Way didn't know, and figured perhaps it was best not to try to find out.

 

The plane had landed with an almighty shudder an hour and a half after the two had boarded - or perhaps a little longer, as his watch read the time to be 12:54.

Miles raised his arms up into a stretch, his bones creaking as he did so. Waylon furrowed his brow in mild concern.

The fresh air felt glorious on his skin. He hadn't realised just how clammy the plane had felt until he was off it.

It was a lengthy walk from the airport to the motel, and the two held a light conversation as they strode along a sidewalk. Way felt oddly chipper, the walk providing his body with the much needed blood circulation he had so desperately craved after being folded up on a humid airplane for a few hours.

"So when are we expected?" Way questioned, following up on a previous conversation about the prison in which his future client was.

"Oh uh..." Miles shoved up his sleeve and turned his wrist, eyes squinted to read the writing on his skin. "Half four. We've got a good three hours at least to sharpen up."

"Couldn't have written that on paper?"

"Paper doesn't stick with me. Falls out of my pockets or some shit."

Waylon looked to the man's many button-up pockets that littered his coat. He somewhat had his doubts.

 

 

 

The room of the motel itself was... well, a bog standard motel room. With just one little ( _big_ ) downside.

Upon entering the building, there was a light smell of air freshener that attempted to mask the musk of wet cigarettes and damp, which seemed to carry it's way throughout the entirety of the building, but the lady at the counter seemed kind enough for Way to put such things aside.

Her teeth were a little yellow as she spoke, her face oddly resembling Amy Winehouse and Waylon's old math lecturer as she gave the two men a sideways glance when Miles pronounced the room that he had requested.

"54, are you sure sir?" She questioned, squinting at her old computer screen.

"Uh, quite. Why is there something wrong?" Miles responded, mirroring the same look of confusion.

The woman looked flustered momentarily, hands held up in defence. "No, no! I just..." She snuck a glance at Waylon. "...It gets rough around here. For guys like... like, _you_. I'm awfully sorry, enjoy your day. And congratulations, I suppose!"

With that, she dropped the keys into Miles' hand.

Once out of the woman's sight, Waylon exchanged a perplexed look with Miles, who shrugged in response, spinning the jingling keys casually on his fingers.

It wasn't until Miles had opened the door to said room, that the confusion had been resolved.

"Miles..." Waylon stood in the doorway, watching his seemingly unbothered acquaintance saunter into the temporary living space.

"What?"

"Where's my bed?"

Miles turned to face Waylon, befuddled for a second. "It's right- ... _Oh_."

A drooping finger weakly pointed to a rather humiliating double bed.

In that moment, Way wished for nothing more than to turn around, shut the door and hop on the earliest flight home. But, against his standard morals, Park stepped into the small room, kicking the door shut behind him.

"You reckon that was why she was so...?"

"Yes, Miles. God, for one of the smartest guys I know, you really fall flat on your face when it comes to very basic problem solving."

"Hey, don't loose your shit, man. We can top and toe." Miles said in a weak attempt to sooth the rather dissatisfied looking lawyer.

"I don't want your smelly feet in my face, thank you." Waylon spat snidely.

"Hey, who said I wanted your manky toe hairs all up in my periph? I made a suggestion, Way." Miles argued in a tone of voice he had developed from Waylon's wife it seemed, echoing it in near perfection.

"Your what now?"

"Periph. Peripheral vision."

"Jesus Christ, Miles." Park mumbled, bringing a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples vigorously. "You really don't seem too bothered."

Miles shrugged admittedly. "I mean we've done it before."

" _Once_. And you kicked the shit out of me."

"Not intentionally."

"I should fucking hope not." Waylon took a step away from the bed, almost as if to get a better glance.

He supposed he could always tug the mattress off the (what he'd hoped to be) wooden frame, and give Miles the frame, duvet and pillows and Way keep just the mattress, but it seemed like an awful lot of dismantling and mantling for one, uncomfortable night.

That left the option of just sleeping next to Miles, but even as close as they were, Waylon felt as if that were just a little too intimate.

It was either feet, face or floor. Waylon wasn't thrilled with any of the options. Not particularly.

But as for now, the two did in fact need to clean themselves up. Waylon had no doubt that the interview will be every bit as hard as he'd come to imagine, and so decided he and Miles best not dwell on the bed situation for any longer than they had to.

 

 

All in all, Waylon brushed up pretty tidily. He wore a tie-less suit and black slacks that clung to his thighs but we're slightly loose as they draped down his legs, and he'd flattened his hair with a little gel in front of the bathroom mirror in an attempt to tame it a little.

He'd even shaved his face clean of the prickly stubble that had began to grow, clumsily dropping the razor as he did so. In a scrambling frenzy to catch it, Waylon felt the sharp slip of a blade across his thumb. The cut wasn't insanely deep, but it bled as profusely as thumbs do. It was nothing a band-aid couldn't cover for the meantime.

Miles hadn't felt the need to tidy up as much as Way had done, after all, Upshur wouldn't be coming into the interrogation room. Instead, he'd promised Waylon that he would converse with the warden of the prison in a bid to scoop up as much information on Gluskin as he could, perhaps find some more paperwork to add the the man's file. Nonetheless, Miles still threw on some clean clothing and brushed his teeth after a shave.

 

 

 

The trip in the rented car was quick, Miles seemed to know where he was going against all the odds of his disorientation.

The conversation revolved around Gluskin, but oddly enough felt light. Miles had asked if Way were nervous, to which he saw no use in lying. Of course he was. This was an accused mass murderer that he would be within a five foot radius of. Not the first time, but that sort of thing never ceases to make a man feel unnerved.

The prison itself was, well, a pretty standard looking high security prison, barbed wire and towering mesh gates before a stone cold building, dull as dry concrete.

The warden was expectant of their arrival, and so stood in front of the entrance with his hands behind his back, a grin flashed.

"Looks like a fucking prick." Miles had spat, peering at him from over the wheel.

Waylon shrugged disinterestedly. "You've got competition, then."

Miles scoffed a chuckle, shaking his head in mild insult and parking obnoxiously across two parking spots. Waylon hadn't even bothered to scold him at this point.

Once parked, they approached the main building.

Salutations were short lived, as for the most part, both Waylon and Miles knew the warden fairly thoroughly (another benefit to Miles' profiling skills), and vise versa.

He seemed every bit of a cockhead as Miles had suspected, not that Waylon had any doubt in his companion's evaluations.

They were briefly seated in the warden's office, which could best be described as decrepit blue with over extensive air conditioning. The guy smelt like roadkill even from a considerable distance. Waylon supposed that that was the quirks of working in such a place.

"Now," The man had begun, shifting against the desk to rest on his forearms. "Inmate 196 has some rather odd... _tendencies_ , let's call them. For example, the room you will be in will be very high security: you'll be aided with an emergency button and audio recorder attached to the table, and guards will be outside the door and heavily armed if things get a little out of hand. However, you will not be being recorded through cameras. This is due to some of the psychological damage that Gluskin has suffered previously, as I'm sure you both know about. Best not dwell."

Of course the thought of the situation terrified Waylon, as cameras has previously been the main source of reliance when it came to such dangerous interviews, but the lawyer had read well into Gluskin's case files and was oddly grateful for the lack of them.

_"Inmate 196 displayed unpredictable acts of violence and verbally abusive outbursts towards all guards in the room, followed shortly by prolonged and irresponsive episodes, in which Mr. Gluskin would not lift his head or acknowledge any of the men within the room. He will be assessed further to explore the depth of his psychological damage. This behavior should not be repeated or encouraged, and avoided at all costs if possible."_

That was the part that Waylon had forced himself not to forget, written by the man " _Dr. Wernicke_ ", whom Way knew all too well was the big cheese at Murkoff Corp., the cause of all the controversy so to speak.

Gluskin's past had been written in words as something very black and white, to the point. His files had given very little detail, which was consequently down to fact that Gluskin wouldn't spill a single word of his past, the only evidence of such things happening were in, well, cameras. The such things in question were described meekly as, " _Incestuous non-consensual acts of severe abuse and mistreatment._ " or sometimes even just, " _Sexual abuse"_.

"Any whom, inmate 196 will be cuffed completely - feet and hands - and will be chained to a steel loop below him, meaning he won't be walk within a foot of where you're sat across from him. In simpler words, if he lunges all you've gotta do is scoot back and press ya button." The warden concluded with a clasp of his hands and rose to his feet. "So let's meet the man himself. And remember," The warden's expression morphed into a more serious and genuine one momentarily, turning to Waylon as he spoke. "It's not too late to say no."

Waylon knew that, gnawing on his lip in thought. Perhaps it was an intelligent idea to refuse the case, for the sake of his morals.

But, he _knew_ he wouldn't.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, still no Eddie yet.
> 
> Next chapter, folks. Next chapter. Just you wait.
> 
> By the way, this is not the best of my writing abilities. Obviously. I'm really not making an effort in this chapter really. Perhaps I shouldn't confess that. 
> 
> But yeah, boring af chapter. Next one's pretty entertaining I promise. 
> 
> Leave kudos, comment, mark your territory... Do as you please, the world is your oyster. 
> 
> Thanks for stopping by, appreciate it. X


	3. Interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. 
> 
> Eddie's actually in this one hooray.
> 
> Basically it all goes tits up from here on out! Woop for failing relationships!
> 
> Not much else to say but yeah, enjoy. Leave kudos and stuff, comment, give me some sugar.
> 
> Enjoy, sluts. 
> 
> P. S,   
> I've only proof read this once lol I'm with kids don't blame me. Innocent souls.

  
Anticipation stirred in Waylon's guts like a cruel potion as his feet carried him down a descending corridor. The interrogation rooms to his left and right, as he had come to notice, increased in security as he reached nearer to end of the corridor: a few of the doors were open due to their unoccupance, revealing two way mirrors, cameras in each corner and chain loops hooked to the floors and even the walls.

Waylon shuddered anew. He knew what was to come inevitably soon. Miles continued to walk next to him, but wasn't engaging in any form of conversation. It felt almost too self indulgent in such a motionless, cold area.

The door was in sight, as indicated by half a dozen guards stood on standby next to the door. Way almost felt a little insulted by the warden's decision to heavily secure him in such a way as if he didn't know how to handle a criminal, even in chains. He didn't give it a second moment's thought however, as the warden spoke:

"Mr. Park, here's your stop. This is yours for the interview," the man handed Waylon a rectangular box with a button on it, no bigger than three inches long. "You press this if anything were to happen. Be hasty about it if I were you, these men have learnt to be rather quick."

To that, Waylon swallowed thickly, eyes focused on the small box as he ghosted a thumb over the button. He nodded. "I'll be sure of it."

Miles gave a reassuring nod in Way's direction, followed by a crooked grin. The warden tapped Miles' arm and perked up a little.

"You, sir. You come with me. We'll see Mr. Park later." He turned back to Waylon, who gnawed at his bottom lip. "Good luck."

With that, the two other men made their way back the way they'd come, leaving Park with a rather hunky looking guard, but whom's face seemed kind enough.

"This way, sir." He spoke, in an expectantly deep tone.

The large, metal door clicked open into the interrogation room, and Way's ears caught the gentle shuffle of chains in the silence of the space.

He stepped forward into the room, and as soon as he did, he'd come to regret ever arriving.

The door clicked behind him, the guards were beyond that steel door, leaving Waylon with the man he had only ever seen in the dread inducing mugshots.

_Eddie Gluskin._

Waylon's brain was faltering, stuttering and shuddering, but he never broke the surface; he wore a confident demeanor and walked to the empty seat with a slow, assertive gate.

The criminal watched his every move like a hungry viper stalking a furry little vole, and Waylon felt those icy cold eyes all over his body and dared to meet them as he sat down, only to find that the man had already been looking to his face.

Gluskin's stare was intense and godawfully venomous, but there was distrust and uncertainty, as if he didn't know what to make of the far smaller lawyer just yet.

However, Waylon knew exactly how he felt about the man before him. Yet, he seemed somehow different to the naked eye than in the mugshots.

Firstly, Eddie was _huge_. Not only freakishly tall but well built. His prisoner uniform was tight and small on his body and evidently short in the arms, as they reached only halfway down the man's thick wrists, leading to giant cuffed hands and we're interlinked in front of himself. He'd lowered his head to watch Waylon over his scarred brow.

His eyes scanned the lawyer's face in a way that felt invasive and horribly intimate. Harrowing. But Waylon dared not to let down his unfaltering demeanor.

Clearing his throat, he broke the momentary eye contact and shifted forth a little in his seat. "Introductions seem a little pointless, as we obviously know each other already. I'm pleased that you would choose myself to potentially be your lawyer."

Waylon spoke in a way that was not particularly genuine, almost disinterested and very rehearsed. It tended to brush prisoners up the wrong way, and Waylon adored the reaction which was usually irresponsive. But not in this case.

"I've been told that you're my best shot, I'd be gutted if you were to deny me of yourself," Was the prisoner's reply.

Waylon's eyes snapped up to the man. He features had softened, and in such a way that it unsettled Park even further. The blue eyes and pooled red whites had become heavily lidded, and a smirk threatened to dance on the man's chapped lips.

His voice was far softer than he'd come to imagine, graced with a polite and gentlemanly accent. It was quiet contradictory really, and Waylon felt the low pitch hum through the room. He spoke quietly, but by god, it filled the small room efficiently.

Park swallowed anew.

"You're lucky I'm a people pleaser in that case, _inmate_."

A sadistic urge to irk the man before him took hold of Waylon like a cruel lover, desperate for a reaction. The one he got made his skin crawl.

Gluskin's small smirk dropped into a sneer. Well, clearly the use of " _inmate_ " was a little too degrading for such a big man.

The prisoner shifted, accompanied by the sound of dragging chains around his legs.

Waylon dismissed the piercing stare, lifting his hands to mirror Eddie's on the table. Eddie scooted his hands back a little, giving Waylon more space. Not as a polite gesture, but as a subtle insult.

"Alright so here's the boring stuff I've gotta ask. You're fully aware of the regulations of this dynamic and are going to be fully cooperative and obedient to them, correct?" Waylon continued, before looking up at Eddie expectantly.

The inmate nodded, eyes fixated on the lawyer's fingers.

"I'm going to need to verbal answer-"

"You're bleeding."

Rather taken aback by such an interruption, Waylon lifted his right hand, dragging along a small trail of red across the table.

His band-aid was sodden in the metallic liquid, peeling back halfway off his thumb and he hadn't even noticed.

Waylon huffed in annoyance, quickly - almost frantically - peeling off the wet little bandage and shoving it in a pocket before pushing his dripping thumb into his mouth as a panicked instinct.

Gluskin had watched him through eyes that were no longer half lidded, but instead were widened. Waylon was curious for a second, hearing the man inhale an almost inaudible gasp.

Just as Park was about to apologize for his unprofessional approach at resolving the problem, he noticed a minor shift in Eddie, as if the man had clicked back into reality from the initial surprise.

" _Whore_."

It was quiet, mumbled, but Waylon heard it. His mind fogged with initially confusion, then a spiteful sense of disbelief. His skin began to crawl.

Popping his thumb out of his mouth, Waylon swallowed a little of his own blood before responding with an:

"Excuse me?"

Eddie's eyes snapped up to meet Waylon's, and suddenly Waylon so desperately wanted to press that safe little button.

They were crawling with insanity, a cold sort or fire that raged. More importantly - or perhaps in this case - confusingly, Eddie's pupils had widened significantly into black holes, the ring of blue far thinner than before.

"You shameless bitch, you want me to see you _dripping_ don't you? Whorish cow. Maybe I _should_ consider a new lawyer."

To say the words took Waylon aback was a major understatement. He furrowed his brow, mouth opening and closing in utter astonishment that this man would dare talk to anyone like that. His stomach flipped, whether in fury or shock or something else entirely, he didn't know.

"Yeah," Waylon spat through his teeth. "Maybe you'll have to, fucker."

Park knew that his behavior was far from professional, and sure, his voice was being recorded, but in that moment he was insulted enough to barely give a fuck.

Eddie coughed a laugh, dared to shift his hands forward to drag his index through the little pool of Waylon's blood no bigger than the man's nail. Waylon watched every slow movement that reflected a twisted tenderness in the way his own fluid was dragged along the ceramic table.

Gluskin bought a wetted finger to his lips, wrapped them around the digit and sucked before leaning close to a visually captivated Waylon and whispering a, "Maybe. But maybe you _love_ someone who makes you work for it," he spoke in a manner that was terribly similar to a satisfied purr as he watched Waylon's Adam's apple bob from across the table. "And maybe I do too."

Park's first thought, as a professional of course, was to ignore the stuttering beat of his heart, heavy breaths that felt so shallow and pooling feeling of... uncertainty in his gut, and to instantly glance to the audio recorder that was placed on the table, that had hopefully picked up on Gluskin's questionable behavior and was hopefully sending guards in to save Waylon's bacon.

But he was taken aback to see that Eddie had covered the small grid with his elbow, so that the guards on the other end would have most likely only heard muffled shifting of fabric.

"I advise you to keep this interaction entirely professional, Mr. Gluskin."

Waylon's voice didn't follow suit with his words, and they tumbled from his mouth strained and a little raspy.

Eddie seemed to prepare an attempt at following on with his rather invasive interactions, and in a desperate bid for the situation to end, Waylon was hasty to continue with his questioning.

He cleared his throat once more to cut Eddie off.

And he tried - _oh so desperately_ \- not to think about the way the man had tasted his blood, had slid a red finger into his mouth, dragged it across his tongue - slow and deliberate, until it was clean.

It made Waylon fume. Not because the action was particularly insulting, but it somehow made him feel just as shameless as Eddie had accused him to be.

So he grit his teeth, cleared his throat obnoxiously and continued.

"You're aware of the precautions and consequences of the retrial, and are willing and prepared for them, correct?"

Waylon's confidence had admittedly been knocked a little, but it was clear in his voice that he was attempting to mount his high horse once again in being so forward, tone almost demanding. His bleeding hand lay in his lap, but Waylon feared that it may be too far gone to receive anything of any value from the man at this point. Park knew that he had awoken a beast, roused it from within Gluskin.

The prisoner's gaze remained cold and hard, and watched Waylon as if he were little more that dirt. But there was something else in the man's eyes as his chains could be heard slithering across the floor until Gluskin's booted foot touched Waylon's shin.

Waylon jerked his leg away a little too quickly, sneering in violation. He considered that he may had given Eddie too much satisfaction from his abrupt reaction, and so glared at him boldly, as if disgusted.

Park was beginning to fall ever more frustrated with the man before him as he sat in a provoking silence, and so attempted to repeat his question, weaving in a tone of voice that displayed his shrinking patience and ignorance to whatever Eddie's initial goal was.

"I'll repeat myself, then. You're aware of the-"

"You treat me like a fool. I've done this before. You know that."

The prisoner's voice had become low, belittling, as if he were talking to merely a child.

The hard stare, his pulsating thumb, the suffocating frustration that was now bordering on anger and the almost impulsive urge to reach out and grab the man before him brewed like a deadly cocktail within the lawyer.

"But..." Eddie continued, leaning only a touch closer, his handcuffs clunking against the table as his right index swiped some of the red liquid that was now cold, and rubbed it against his thumb. It was an oddly captivating sight, but Waylon wouldn't even dream to admit that.

"...there are many things you've yet to learn about me."

Mid sentence, Eddie's eyes had rolled up to meet Waylon's. There was a hint of something that imitated playfulness in his eyes, lost in the utter insanity and cold distance. His pupils had widened anew at the feeling of foreign blood on his fingers, so thick and red.

Waylon saw it: the ghost of a smirk that played on Eddie's lips, a curious glint in his eye. He lowered his voice, his frustration never subsiding and through a sneer, Waylon challenged:

"Care to enlighten me?"

Eddie's fingers stopped rubbing the crimson liquid together, his features stiffening. His lip twitched contemplatively.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Gluskin was, within the best of his abilities, restraining himself. Holding himself back from doing something he'd undoubtedly come to regret.

But the man was almost unreadable. His demeanor was fairly open and obvious, but his intentions were completely unexposed. Waylon considered provoking the man further, teasing a reaction out of him, but he couldn't trust that his instincts (and his guards) would be quick enough to rescue him from immediate danger.

A gentle knock at the door startled both men, causing their heads to cock towards the doorway.

A voice from behind the door sounded, "Mr. Park, you're almost out of time I'm afraid. I'll give you two more minutes to wrap up."

Well, that was a first. Never before had Waylon almost gone over his assigned interview time.

He glanced to the blood on the table, then back up to Eddie.

"I can explain to them what's on the table, I can't explain why it's on your fingers."

Eddie looked perplexed for a moment, before he got the message and once again, sucked the blood off his digits just as sincerely as the first time.

The moment he had done it, Waylon drew his attention away immediately, shoving the chair from under him and rising to his feet, his knees clicking as he stretched them subtly.

"I don't want to do this again," Waylon stated dryly as he remained on his feet but faced the seated man, noting that his elbow was still folded across the audio recorder.

Eddie's face wore no emotion, making it hard for Waylon to decipher him.

Nevertheless, he continued. His wording was slow, careful. He didn't want to appear too unprofessional in his hasty decision, but such things were often difficult to accomplish when he acted as abruptly as he so often did.

"But I'm going to accept your case. Not because you've been particularly pleasant to me - you _haven't_ \- but because your case is one step in the right direction, and I somewhat feel like you might actually talk to me if you see a purpose in doing so." His voice was monotone, flat and unfriendly. "Might be wrong, though."

Eddie's brow softened. He was biting back a grin, Waylon knew that, but at least the man had the decency not too.

Waylon stopped him before he could change his mind. "It's not official. Legally, I've got to get a little more out of you - a lot more. So you better start talking."

"What is there to say?"

The challenging tone took Waylon off guard a little, as it was far more of a statement than a question. Gluskin's reaction reawoke the previous frustration within the lawyer, his teeth gritting in his jaw.

"How about answering my fucking questions. How does that sound?"

It seemed that very same frustration had become mutual, as Eddie's eyes had narrowed so subtly that Waylon almost didn't catch it.

"Goodness, your language is despicable. Although, I'm not surprised. Unruly whore."

Waylon coughed a breathy laugh of offence. "You're on thin fucking ice, inmate."

"Is that so? And what happens if the ice breaks?"

A challenge. Another fucking _challenge_. Only this time, Waylon didn't know how to meet it, wasn't sure how to approach it. In all honesty, he didn't know. What would happen? And what chance did he have against this guy?

"I'm not sure you want to know."

The lawyer's attempt was weak, his threats fruitless. He knew that, and Eddie did too.

The inmate allowed a mocking smirk the blossom across his face. His eyes ran the course of Waylon's body in a bid to make the man squirm in discomfort. The lawyer refused, standing as rigidly as he had done before, letting the eyes roam his body like unwelcomed hands. He glared back.

Eddie's voice was low, poisonous. It dripped from his lips like tar, rumbled like distant thunder. And of course, thunder never came without the promise of a storm.

"Care to enlighten me?"

The use of his own words against him made Waylon feel as if he'd taken a bullet to the guts, accompanied by the returned, harrowing eye contact that glinted with satisfaction.

Waylon couldn't stand there for any longer. His skin crawled with discomfort, humiliation, anger.

Perhaps raising his middle finger was a little juvenile, but the harsh, " _Fuck you_ ," fit the situation like a glove, in Waylon's mind at least.

As he left the interview room, he didn't react to the soft, mocking sigh of laughter and accomplishment.

The guards were in as soon as Waylon was out, which he was very grateful for, and the sight of Miles and the warden had remanifested a sense of calmness within the lawyer.

There was no conversation as they returned to the warden's office, not like Waylon was particularly in the mood to be hounded with questions just yet.

It had only taken a few minutes to establish that the next interview should be sooner rather than later, as requested by Miles. Waylon didn't mind, it gave him less time to procrastinate and sulk about having to inevitably see the man again on another long trip.

And as expected, as soon as Waylon jumped in the car, Miles did indeed hound him with questions, which Waylon answered with mostly one worded, monotone responses.

Even if he had wanted to give more in depth answers, he wasn't really sure if he could.

But as much as he hated to admit it, Gluskin was right. There were many things that Waylon was yet to learn about him.

And by god, it intrigued him.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Bloody palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo.
> 
> Chapter 4 yayyy. 
> 
> Oh, by the way, there's some odd, smutty sort of stuff in this. It's just Way going solo. It's fine, don't get too excited. 
> 
> Also I'm feeling quite uninspired at the moment, so if you guys would be absolute darlings and leave me a comment or kudos I would love that. 
> 
> That's all I think. 
> 
> Enjoy. X

 

Waylon had barely slept that night. He'd skipped dinner too.

Truth be told, the man felt sick to his stomach. And sleeping next to Miles wasn't exactly the most comfortable experience, as the man tossed and mumbled for all he was worth. Waylon could at least be grateful for the fact that he didn't snore as much as he did in collage.

He'd slept well for two hours, some foam ear buds proving very effective against Miles' interruptions.

But he'd awoken abruptly to a sickly stir in his gut that made his head feel light and empty.

After wrapping up his thumb for a second time as soon as he'd arrived back to the motel, he'd gone out to buy food and cooked for Miles and all the while his thumb hadn't even threatened to bleed. But as he crawled out of bed, he felt the familiar wetness coat his fingers.

He sighed, stood up quietly and headed to the bathroom for a new band-aid, or perhaps something with a little more hold and absorbency.

Rubbing his eyes with his dry hand, he nudged open the door which was conveniently agar and pulled a string to the right of him.

The bulbs hummed and blinked a couple of times before illuminating the room, the light peeking out to reveal a sleeping Miles, who didn't look even slightly phased by it's blinding glare.

His eyes squinted in a bid to block out some of the light and subtly adjust themselves as he pushed the door closed with his foot.

Next to the sink was a box of band-aids that varied in size, situated beside a digital clock that read the time to be 12:43 in the evening.

He looked at his reflection above the sink and sighed at his disheveled hair and sleepy eyes, before the red on his fingers caught his eye again.

It slipped down his palm and onto his wrist, red as a seductress' lustful lips, or wet nail varnish dripping from it's brush. Dangerous. Scandalous.

It reminded him of Eddie, as if those harrowing eyes were tattooed onto his brain.

He shut his eyes in hopes to refuse the acknowledgement of the man. He shook his head, hoping his brain would bash against his skull hard enough to forget about the accused criminal, but he saw him.

As if it were a dream encouraged by his half asleep state, he saw the red on the man's long, dangerous fingers, his mouth engulfing them, gentle lips touching the fluid, soft tongue coated in a crimson dye. Waylon's crimson dye. He saw a grin and through bloodstained teeth, he heard the words: " _dripping," "shameless"._

Way could almost hear the click of his own blood mixed with Gluskin's saliva as he spoke.

Disgusting. Grotesque. Waylon felt like a filthy fucking pig.

He was being delusional. Fucking delusional. He blamed it on his hazy brain, plagued with fatigue and exhaustion.

His fingers clutched the sink harder, his knuckles whitening. His eyes refused to open, refused to see the blood that was now dripping onto the sink like thick venom.

Teasing. God, he wished it would stop fucking teasing.

He was trembling slightly. The criminal's face was unwelcome in his mind. He induced anger, confusion. And something else. Something he simply could not put his finger on. It was the same poisonous cocktail of emotions he'd experienced way back in the interrogation room, only this time it fogged his vision, became all he could feel.

If he'd knew what he was doing, if he could have stopped himself, he would have in an instant. But the blood felt so warm, so wet and thick as it oozed down his hand, as if the red varnish pot had been so clumsily knocked, and now trailed down the crevices in his digits.

It begged. Begged to be back in his body. A challenge. And who was Waylon to say no to challenge?

Waylon wouldn't have shoved his thumb into his mouth again if he had the choice. Never again. But he did.

He curled his tongue over the small split with finesse, dragged it over the little red trails it had made that streamed down into the creases of his palm. He was hesitant at first, as if testing the waters. The tip of his tongue scooped the red liquid gently.

Park felt captivated, the tangy metallic liquid still warm and slick against the roof of his mouth. His tongue probed the weeping slit, and he instinctively flinched his hand back. It throbbed and stang.

But Jesus fucking Christ, Waylon wanted so much more.

It felt like a fever dream; He was beginning to sweat, the droplets cold over his skin. His mouth felt so warm and his thumb stang profusely. But the pain somewhat urged Waylon to feel more of it, and like heroin, he couldn't stop.

A warm exhale of air tickled the stinging thumb, before Way sank his mouth over the digit once more, rolling his tongue around it, cheeks sucking inward and hollowing.

Every stroke of his tongue made him feel more deprived of whatever he was craving, whatever was making him feel so ill.

His teeth nipped at the small flesh wound, and Waylon jolted in a bittersweet pain that made him whimper and fall forward a little, so that his head pressed against the mirror with a gentle thump.

The impact flicked a switch in Waylon's brain, images of Gluskin flushing back into his mind. His fingers tingled at the phantom sensation of the man running his mouth over the rest of Waylon's bloody palm, finishing what he'd started, tasting Waylon while he was warm.

" _Unruly whore."_

Waylon didn't want it. Had no idea why his body was reacting the way it was. But he needed more.

His body slumped further against the sink, and Waylon's eyes jolted open. His sight was blurred for a moment, before the white sink came into focus. Strips of red seeped down the sides that curved like soft, pale hips held in bloody hands.

His breath was shallow, his mind speeding. There was still Waylon somewhere in the wasteland that had become his brain, but not in that moment. In that moment, Park felt unhinged, possessed. As if an unstoppable force had grabbed the reins and guided the man's bloody hand into the front of the tented pajama bottoms he had fallen asleep in.

His hand cradled the base of his cock, his bleeding thumb sweeping along the thick vein that pulsed at the slick warmth. His lips parted with a sigh, eyes forcing shut again.

Fuck, his cock was _so_ hard.

A new wave of desperation consumed Waylon, as he wasted no time in wrapping his fingers around his length and fucking into his own hand at a pace that made him groan rather obnoxiously.

The pace didn't subside and neither did Waylon's hunger, his dry hand still hard against the sink, nails clawing the smooth, solid surface.

His wet hand slid over his cock with an obscenely wet clap, again and again. Miles and his need to sleep had been long forgotten, and in that very moment Waylon couldn't care less if he heard him.

He didn't know if it was precum or blood that rolled off the tip of his dick, nor did he care. His pleasure was beginning to peek, his thumb throbbing and aching, cock dripping.

_Dripping._

_"You shameless bitch, you want me to see you dripping don't you?_ "

The memory of the soft, humming tone caused Waylon to toss his head backwards, mouth open, coughing out a broken moan through heavy breaths, before bowing his head against the mirror and whimpering. Wet fingers squeezed the base of his cock when he came, hips bucking frantically as he rode out his orgasm.

Way couldn't remember the last time he had cum that quickly, or the hard.

The shame shot to his stomach almost instantly before he could bask in the afterglow.

His hand flew away from his member that still twitched, as he toppled back away from the sink.

Waylon caught his reflection. He was sheet white, a trail of red blood and saliva bleeding from his mouth to his chin where it hung like a string. He desperately brushed it away with the back of his clean palm.

He barely recognised himself. He felt filthy and looked it.

Then he thought of Gluskin, accompanied by the heavy, lingering and sickly presence of shame.

Park tasted acid in his mouth and stumbled for the toilet.

He held the lid up with his filthy hand as his stomach clenched, ridding of it's unpleasant innards.

Panting over the toilet bowl, Waylon's eyes watered as he gagged again at the sight of blood in his sick, but nothing erupted from his throat.

He allowed himself to slump there on the tiled floor for a moment while his head span and fizzed. He didn't know for how long, it had felt like hours, but he'd no doubt that it was barely a few minutes.

His conscience cleared, his breathing regulating as he forced himself to his feet, and slipped off his pajama pants. They were sodden in both cum and blood, and for a moment it was like Waylon couldn't even recall what had happened.

Without hesitation, Waylon wet the leg of the fabric and twisted out the excess water, before mopping up the sink and bloody floor tiles. He was quick to screw up the garment and throw them into the small metal bin next the the toilet. Even the very sight of them made Waylon's stomach churn.

He returned to the sink, washing his hands thoroughly, applying soap twice and scrubbing until his skin was pink.

His oozing thumb begged for the soap to be gone in jolts of intense pain but Waylon embraced the aching throb, this time as a punishment for what had previously made him feel so ecstatic.

Once he'd rinsed his hands, he scrambled about in the small cupboard behind the mirror for bandages until he had found some that either Miles had been smart enough to bring along or had been left in the room by a previous occupant. Either way, Waylon was unspeakably grateful.

He wrapped his thumb up tightly, in the hopes that by the time he unwrapped it again, he won't have to see it bleed ever again.

Who knew one razor accident could cause such a drama, eh?

Waylon was (luckily) organised enough to have a pair of jeans to hand atop of the an unused laundry basket (that he assumed was there more for decoration than practical usage) and he scooped them up and slipped them on. They were pretty uncomfortable without boxers, but couldn't be more uncomfortable than Miles potentially seeing his half naked and bloody lower regions.

Before he left the small room, he peeked through the door to look at Miles, who seemed as if the entire ordeal hadn't interrupted his deep sleep at all. Once again, Waylon was eternally grateful.

Sneaking out the doorway, Waylon switched off the light and tip-toed across the creaky floor and hopped back into bed. It was warm and having the comfort of Miles next to him made him feel slightly better.

But Way had no intention of sleeping. He couldn't. Sleeping meant the he had forgiven himself, and he could never do that. He didn't want to. Doubted he would ever want to again.

_Lisa._

_Oh Lisa, I'm so sorry my love. Never forgive me._

Park felt his chest tighten like a noose, and he swallowed thickly. He knew Lisa would never know, would never find out. But he still felt as if she had been there, watching in sheer horror.

It wasn't Waylon in the bathroom. It was someone else: a thirsty, greedy, masochistic beast that snatched ahold of Way's strings like a puppeteer. It was a monster that Waylon never knew brewed within him.

But amongst the shame, anger and disgust, the beast within preened and licked it's lips.

It's hunger was _far_ from satisfied.

 

 

Morning crept up on Waylon as he busied himself in the small kitchen area. He brewed shitty coffee for himself and Miles, before throwing his trainer at the man to wake him up.

After the initial snappiness, Miles was pleased to be graced by the sight of coffee.

Conversation was light, gentle. Park was grateful for that. It was a weight lifted off of his shoulders, something else to focus on.

Miles propped himself up in the bed, coffee held atop of the white sheets and in his lap.

"So when's the interview?" He asked.

Waylon swallowed nervously. He'd almost let himself forget.

"Uh, half twelve. It's a quarter past nine at the moment."

Miles furrowed his brow at Waylon. "Why did you wake me up this early, you cleft?"

Waylon shrugged, making his way over to the bed with a mug of sweet coffee in hand.

"Dunno. Bored of my own company."

Well, it certainly wasn't a lie.

Miles looked perplexed for a moment. "What- How long have you been awake for?"

"Well I didn't get much sleep, no thanks to you." Waylon sulked, Miles snickered. It, once again, wasn't entirely a lie. "I'll book the room next time. And it will be a nice hotel. With good room service. And two beds."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

He certainly didn't look very sorry.

Waylon shook his head, bringing his warm coffee to his lips and taking a generous sip.

One more interview. One more until he could go home and hold his wife, tell her how much he loved her.

And it would be a good couple of months before the hearing, which meant no Eddie. It gave him enough time to get his shit together and clear his head.

 

 

It was almost midday by the time the two had returned to the prison, and Waylon had had a hissy fit at Miles every moment of the way for making him late.

They had entered the building, the warden greeting them as he had done before and Waylon's hair had stood on it's ends from the very moment they'd arrived.

A cloud of shame engulfed the man's conscience, and he would admit to himself of his discomfort. He doubted he would even talk to the man if the two were alone.

So he requested that two guards remain in the room during the interview. Mainly for his own emotional well being, but also as a grand " _fuck you"_ to Gluskin.

Park couldn't deny himself the pleasure of a little power play. May as well indulge.

He had entered the interrogation room, guards following shortly behind him, and Gluskin's face was an absolute picture.

Defeat. Almost. As if he'd locked the beast in the cage and poked it with a hot stick.

The sneer on his face showed the man's agitation and displeasure, but the defeat was certainly there.

Park took a seat in front of him.

"I hope you don't mind our spot of company, inmate." Way smirked sadistically, shifting himself forward and meeting the man's challenging eye contact with a glare that matched.

He shifted his hands onto the table. Subtly, he rolled his opposite finger along his bandaged thumb, gently enough that his nail tugged fruitlessly at the fabric.

"You might get a little less... distracted."

As Waylon continued, he felt his nervousness melt into assertiveness, as he soaked up the glorious dominance he so suddenly had. Of course, the dominance wouldn't last, but it gave Way all the more reason to bathe in it.

Gluskin however, looked as if he were a spring being pushed and pushed, about to recoil and snap. His hands were balled on the table, hard as the cuffs that held him.

The interview was short lived; Waylon asked what he needed to ask, and Gluskin spat sufficient enough answers through gritted teeth. The man clearly had some control issues. Either that or he just despised the guards. Or both. Probably both.

Waylon had managed to wrap up the interview in seven minutes and concluded with a:

"Thank you for being so responsive. It really is a pleasant change." Waylon cooed in a mocking tone, an element of false surprise in his voice. "You should do it more often."

The inmate almost hummed in anger, his stare deadly, unnerving - promising terror. Waylon didn't doubt that it was no empty threat, but the temptation proved too much for him, as he couldn't help but chime a snide:

"I like it when you're nice and obedient for me."

And oh, that really did it.

Luckily, Way was more than quick enough to scoot backwards in his chair without stumbling, as a pair of balled fists launched at his face. The jingle of chains indicated that Gluskin couldn't move any further, and to that the man growled in fury like a beast.

The guards were swift to grab Gluskin's shoulders and struggle against the brute's force in an attempt to sit him back down.

" _You fucking whore! Crazy fucking bitch, come here! I'll fucking gut you. I'll fucking-"_

The inmate's words were drowned out by incoherent yells and bellows, as Waylon stood from his chair and made a beeline towards the door, without exchanging another glance.

As he left, he called a bittersweet, "Until next time, Gluskin," which he doubted the man had heard.

Upon exiting, the lawyer was greeted with a rather concerned looking Miles, furrowing his brow.

"What did you do?"

Park smirked knowingly at Miles' curiosity.

"Don't you worry."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Horrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one's a day early because I'm way too excited to get this fic out in the open. 
> 
> So here's chapter 5, I hope you lot enjoy it.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you for all the love I'm getting for this fic so far, I can assure you it's mutual <3
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and cherished dearly, like you lot. 
> 
> Enjoy y'all. X

  
The flight home felt somewhat shorter than before, and Waylon assumed that it was down to that fact that he'd managed to get some much needed shut eye over the sound of the humming engine and ticking turbines.

His lack of sleep the previous night had taken a toll on him more so than he had initially thought it would, and even Miles had began to notice. But he didn't make much of a remark, rather he made quite juvenile pokes of insult at Waylon's sleepy demeanor, although he himself wasn't much better.

Lisa had text him when they'd arrived home at the airport, a simple reminder that she loved him and wished him good luck - sweet and pure like honeysuckle. Way assumed that she had probably sent it far earlier, before they'd boarded, but it must not have delivered. Shame. Nevertheless, Way's face bloomed into a smile.

Miles drove Waylon home, and Waylon tapped his toes to the Red Hot Chili Peppers album that thumped through the speakers of the bumbling red jeep, and Miles had hummed along. The guy wasn't a bad singer, Waylon had realised long ago. He had the sort of voice that could fit prettily in any genre of music. He used to do choir as a kid or something, his parents made him go along with the Boy Scouts. Waylon however, could not sing to save his soul, and was not forced into Christian communities for kids, although he always secretly wanted to. He didn't think it mattered, he would still sing anyway, scouts or no scouts.

By the time Way had unlocked his front door, the clouds had began to bleed into fruity pinks and oranges as dusk lay low in the sky. It wasn't warm, nor was it cold, but there was a blissful breeze that had made Waylon sigh contently.

As he opened the door, he called his wife, who hurriedly trotted down the stairs, her bare feet graceful against the oak of the staircase like a deer bounding through a blooming woodland.

They greeted each other with a tender kiss. She was small in his arms, but fit like a puzzle piece. Perfect - almost _too_ perfect.

"Something smells delicious, sweet pea." Waylon remarked, pulling away from Lisa so that he could place his bag in the stairwell with a muffled thud.

"I was cooking. Went upstairs to get some of the new plates, then got distracted by you." Her tone was playful, rich in the joyous reunion.

"You bought new plates?"

"Only the best. I was a little sick of only having two in the house." Lisa patted Way's chest, before heading into the kitchen again with a cheerful spring in her step, delicate cotton apron flaring subtly as she turned on her heel.

Waylon couldn't disagree with her. Although it was an odd sort of comfort, having an assigned plate - was he being a little too sentimental perhaps? Lisa would most likely believe so.

"I'll get them while I'm up there, dear." Waylon walked over to his bag and slung it on his shoulder again, not really seeing the point in placing it down in the first place until it's harsh strap rubbed painfully against a sore shoulder, and remembered exactly why.

"Next to the bed." She called from beyond the kitchen wall, her voice like the tinkering bell above the door of a liquorice shop.

As Waylon ascended up the stairs, a spike of guilt punctured his chest, swallowing hard as he let the wave knock him back a little.

He reached the bedroom and slumped down onto his bed - he hated how unfamiliar it had began to feel, weaving his hands through his hair.

Why did he feel so adulterous?

Park's eyes wandered to the front pocket of his messenger bag, where the mugshot of Gluskin had last been placed by his own sinful fingers.

A compulsive and inexplicable urge irked his fingers the unzip it and scoop out the small, folded piece of paper.

 _Horrible, horrible_.

His fingers were slow and delicate as he unfolded it, as if he were unwrapping a crinkling piece of candy in the night that he wasn't allowed, and didn't want to be heard, until Way's eyes met the man in the picture's.

God, and there was that undying guilt again. Thick and heavy in his chest like swallowing a brick that just wouldn't sink.

His bandaged thumb curled over Gluskin's face - _horrible_ \- stopping at his neck. He pressed his nail against where the man's jugular would be, had he not been trapped in the borders of the photograph. Waylon pressed down - _that's right, that's good, press_ \- until the gentle tale telling crackle of ripping could be heard.

But he didn't stop there, oh no. Way pressed and pressed, gentle but deadly, until his thumb breached the glossy picture and Gluskin's face and neck split - _bleed out you sick fucker_ \- into a puncture wound of fraying paper.

"Honey! Have you got those plates?"

The call from downstairs had startled Waylon, the bed creaking at his sudden jerking motion of surprise, but not fully breaking his odd sort of trance.

He bunched up the photo and stuffed it in his pocket.

 _Horrible_.

"Yes! Just coming, sweet!"

He looked about momentarily before locating the blue china plates and cradling them in his arm before jogging down the stairs, with a lot less finesse than his spouse, practically dashing from the room.

The photo felt as if it were burning a hole through Way's pocket to his leg.

He placed the plates down on the counter in the kitchen.

"So, will you tell me all about it? How'd it go?" Lisa asked sweetly, dicing some red peppers on a little heart shaped chopping board her mother had bought her on their trip to Spain. It even had her initials on.

"Uh," Waylon began, "Yeah. I mean, he's... _interesting_."

"Yeah? Intriguing interesting or like, scary interesting?" She pushed the peppers aside and sliced a bud of garlic in two, before crushing it with the back of her knife.

"Both. Definitely both. I'm not sure that he much likes me. He made that pretty clear." Waylon pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table, watching his wife's swift fingers work the knife. Any distraction would do.

"Well, he must somewhat like you. He did choose you for a reason."

Waylon huffed an unconvinced laugh. "On a quest for the best. They've already attempt two retrials. Probably just wants a verdict."

Lisa shrugged. "He could be intimidated by your dashing good looks."

"Yeah, that's definitely it." Waylon chuckled.

 

 

The two ate their meals, happy to be in each other's company once again. It was peaceful, and witty conversation fluttered back and forth between the two of them. Eddie had been shoved into the pit of the back of Way's mind, where he belonged, as Way reveled in the sweet nature of his wife.

The sharp ring of the phone cut the moment short, and Waylon insisted he went and sorted it out. A good husband.

He greeted the mystery caller at the other end of the line, before waiting for a moment, lowering the phone and whispering an, "It's for you" at Lisa.

Waylon handed the small phone over, curious, and decided to return to the kitchen table.

His stomach dropped as he watched the face of his spouse grow almost hysterically glum, eyes subtly widened in shock or panic, Way couldn't tell.

"Oh my... Where is she now?... Yes... O-oh yes... What, _now_? No no, that's fine... No, I'll be-... I'll be there in a couple of hours. Tell her I'm coming."

Lisa's pale hands had began to shake, as the placed the phone down and turned to face Waylon, who was already on his feet and making his way over.

"What is it, dear? Are you alright?"

He watched his wife still in the moment, hand raised and mouth agar as if she wanted to say something but had been frozen in time like a beautiful marble statue. Lisa's eyes had become glassy with tears and glittered like morning dew.

"Sweet pea-"

"It's Mom. She's... She's gotten worse. The doctors think she has a fifty-fifty chance of going... into cardiac arrest in the next... two days." Her voice faltered at the last few syllables, stripping it of it's beauty and making it sound harsh and jagged.

"Lisa... Do you need me to drive you over?"

_An empty offering, you know it is._

"No no..." Her body returned to motion, as she headed for the kitchen door with her head bowed in melancholy. "It's miles away. I need to... I need to pack."

With that, she headed upstairs, every step shaky and frantic, stripping her apron as she went and flinging it over the banister.

Waylon ran a hand through his hair, gnawing on his lip nervously like he used to when he was a kid, stuck in detention for another one of Upshur's dumb stunts. Lisa's mother had been quite ill for a while, and they had always knew that she would never have the prolonged life that she deserved. And even in her mid-fifties, she had been expecting to get worse. Every Christmas she would write a cheque, the sum of money growing a little larger every time. They both knew the implication, it was Lisa's mother's way of writing her will.

The woman was a credit, a real credit, and as was her daughter. It was quite tragic really.

When Lisa returned, she had retained herself a little more - despite the small smudge of mascara under her left eye - and slipped on some shoes and a coat, and had a bag slung across her shoulder.

"I don't know how long I'll be. I'm sorry we couldn't... I just..." Lisa chocked a sob - an ugly sob - that she'd been holding captive in the shallow of her throat.

Waylon embraced her, cradling her head as if she were an injured baby bird. He pushed her forehead to his chest and held her softly.

"Shh... You're alright. We've got the rest of our lives to spend together. Look at me, sweetie," He gently tipped her chin up to face him. Her face had little streaks of tears falling over her cheeks like beautiful fresh water springs in the elegance of the woodlands. Way brushed them away with his thumb.

_Too perfect._

"You do what you need to do. Text me when you're there. You're going to be alright, okay?"

She nodded. A quiet but definite response.

"What happened to your thumb, dear?" It was no more than a whisper in the tender moment.

"Dropped my razor."

A soft giggle behind the dreadful, consuming worry, "Buffoon."

He kissed her - lips slow and innocent - before releasing her calming body with a gentle squeeze to her arm.

"I love you, Waylon."

"I love you too."

With that, Lisa turned her back to her husband, opened the front door and took the first hesitant step out of the doorway.

She descended down the stairs and hopped into the car without looking back.

 

 

  
It really did feel lonely sleeping in the double bed without Lisa. There was a new found sympathy for her whenever Waylon had worked desperately late. He couldn't imagine sleeping like this almost every night. But maybe he would have to get used to it for the mean time, and that thought alone made Way ache with a loneliness that didn't feel so temporary.

Perhaps the only reason why Waylon had slept easily was down to the fact that he had been so sleep deprived as of late.

He'd not dreamed, or at least if he had he couldn't recall it. He usually dreamed every night, usually remembered it.

But that night had felt different, empty. Him and his stubborn thoughts that had refused to talk.

_Not so loud mouthed now, are you?_

 

  
The next morning had dragged by achingly slowly, and he had made two cups of coffee in momentary forgetfulness regarding Lisa's absence, only to be thoroughly disappointed upon remembering.

A visit from Miles, however, had certainly changed the tone of his day.

They sat at the kitchen table, Waylon drinking coffee without a shirt and wearing a pair of Lisa's ugly pastel pink pajamas bottoms, as they were the closest item of clothing he could be bothered to reach. He didn't bother getting changed, despite the time of day. Miles hadn't really given Waylon's disorderly appearance a second thought, so in his mind it wasn't a problem.

"So, I come baring news." Miles began eagerly, propping himself up on his elbows.

Waylon nodded the man on with encouragement.

"The hearing will be sooner than you think, and they want to come down here to do it." Miles explained bluntly, leaving no room for interpretation.

Waylon cocked a brow at this. "Why?"

Miles shrugged. "The court up there doesn't wanna do Gluskin's retrial. Not again. Caused a lot of controversy and it kicked up a hell of a storm in the media. They don't want that kind of publicity again, I guess."

It was perfectly reasonable, but what Waylon struggled to get the grips of was why they decided to do it so close to home.

Waylon drummed his fingers against his mug thoughtfully, watching the veins move on the backs of his hands as he did.

"We'll get the retrial."

"Yeah, I mean of course. They trust your judgement." Miles responded in a confident manner.

The brunette watched the blonde closely, head cocked a little. "What ya thinking about?"

"Hm?" Waylon looked up at Miles who bore back expectantly. "Oh, nothing."

"Yeah you are. You do that. When you're contemplating something." The profiler pointed a crooked finger at Waylon's hands.

Park let go of the mug and returned his sight to his hands again. He sighed a chuckle of slight defeat.

"Gluskin. He'll bail himself out until the retrial if the hearing goes well."

"Yeah, and?"

Waylon chuckled once more. "The guy fucking scares me. It's just not an easy thought. Gluskin doesn't like me."

Miles knotted his brow. "It's not like he's gonna hurt you, Way, you're his way out."

"What about when he's out... if he gets out. What then? I'm jack shit to him then."

Miles waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, I think he'll be too busy kissing your ass to do any harm."

Waylon tutted at the profiler, who was grinning like an idiot at the other end of the table.

"Stop worrying about it, Way. You're gonna be just peachy,"

The reassurance was welcome, but Park couldn't help the doubt that sat higher in his brain than the logic.

_Since when did you become so paranoid?_

_Since him. Horrible, horrible him._

It really was a bitter pill to swallow; giving the man freedom when it could potentially throw him into immediate danger. But the pay cheque was so handsome, and fueled by his own determination and deadly ambition, he knew he wouldn't be stopped.

"And for fuck's sake, put some clothes on, Way."

 

  
By the time the evening had rolled by, Waylon had done two sets of laundry, fed the fish (which were admittedly on their way out), completed a case study and all the while making a start on his upcoming one.

He'd even put a shirt on, crediting himself where it was due.

Lisa had called before seven. She sounded like an empty shell, her voice depressingly quiet as she told Way that it wasn't looking too good, but for now her mother was still hanging on.

Hearing Lisa's voice wasn't as pleasant as he thought it would be. He could hear just how upset she was, and it made him deeply unhappy. But there wasn't a lot he could do about it, and maybe that made it worse.

The call was short - Lisa didn't feel like talking and Waylon respected that she needed some time to assess what was happening.

They had hung up with an "I love you", but never a good bye. Lisa hated good byes, which made the situation all the more pain inducing.

Miles had called shortly after, and had given the precise date that the godforsaken hearing had been planned.

And it was indeed far closer than he'd initially thought it would be.

He had been given two and a half weeks to prepare for the hearing. The short preparation time wasn't the issue - he could do that easily and had done on many occasions, but the hasty hearing did spike some suspicion within Way, and he never used to consider himself to be a particularly paranoid person. Never used to, now was a far different story.

On the other hand, the jury may be just as desperate for a verdict as Gluskin himself, which gave all the more reason to speed up the process.

Waylon couldn't be sure, he supposed he would have to wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Hearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early one? Aren't I good.
> 
> This one's a weenie bit longer than the usual, but I really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> A very important chapter incoming, and I hope you guys like it. 
> 
> Once again, a huge thank you to you wonderful lot for all the fantastic feedback I'm getting. Couldn't be happier with it :)
> 
> So do enjoy this one, I'll shut up and get on with writing chapter 12.
> 
> Oh yeah, and Simon Peacock is in this a lot mainly because he's got a cool ass voice .
> 
> X

 

The first week alone had been the hardest: days and nights seemed to drag into tiresome and lonely forevers - Waylon hadn't cooked for himself, anything he could order he would get, despite the great fuss his stomach would rouse come the morning.

The second night in, Way had realized that it was in fact far colder sleeping in a double bed with no one beside him, and fishing out an extra blanket from the storage unit had been a far more melancholy task than it perhaps should have been.

The blankets smelled like sweet honeycomb from an old burnt out candle that Lisa had placed in there, to make them smell good. It worked, the little rolled up lilac blanket had made the whole room smell sugary for the night, before Way had gotten used to it.

It was a good job he had, because the lovely smell had began to make him feel rather sick after a while.

Lisa had called everyday, sometimes even twice. Her mother had begun to show signs of improving, but not at any dramatic rate, and Lisa doubted the likelihood of a quick recovery. The woman was chronically ill, it would be foolish to hold such expectations.

Her father had appeared, too; a man she hadn't seen for years, although not out of spite. The two had simply lost touch after the divorce. She'd told Waylon that he seemed to be a sweet man, and reminded her a lot of himself.

The gloom was still thick in her voice as she told Waylon that her father had given her a large sum of money, to pay for any fees that Lisa may need to pay to stay in the area for any duration of time.

Waylon knew that that meant she would be gone a fair while.

 

 

The second week, things had began to feel a little easier. Miles showed up every day, and Waylon dipped in and out of work to tie the loose ends of Manera's case, which was still ongoing but wouldn't be for long (thank the heavens).

Lisa's calls had been less frequent, but far more upbeat. Her mother was talking more, moving as much as the doctors would let her. It was pleasant to hear. And more family had arrived too, Lisa's uncle and some close friends that lived in New Orleans that neither her nor Way had seen in a hot minute - it seemed to be looking a whole lot brighter for the gal.

Waylon had kept his mind busy, equally a distraction from the temporary loneliness as a need to prepare for the _damned_ hearing - but for the most part he was prepared, and the lawyer leading the prosecution party was almost a fitting match for himself - a man named Simon Peacock.

Mr. Peacock was a cunning man, had a particular way with his words that were just harsh enough to discourage the jury from the defense's testament without explicitly requesting it to be done so. He was a older than Park, had a couple more notches under his belt as well as the years, and there had been times where Peacock had worked Way into the dirt to fight his side of the case, and vise versa, but it was always evident that Waylon had the slight upper hand, the mildest advantage.

The week before the trial felt far quicker than many of his weeks before. Miles had called more times than Lisa had, considering himself being equally as involved in the case (whether that was entirely professional/true or not was neither here nor there to Upshur).

Miles had visited the night before too, and sat with Waylon into the long hours of the night, reevaluating, looking for even the tiniest flaws on both their own and Peacock's behalf.

Peacock's flaws were their gain, and by god did they need it.

But Waylon felt prepared, nonetheless. Sure, there was always an element of improvisation depending on what the prosecution party decided to bring to the table, but Park was sure that it was nothing he couldn't handle.

The witness seemed to be both a strong and weak point on Peacock's behalf. She was a young, healthy, perfectly sane woman who had been working late night 'till early morning at the motel on the evening of a particular incident in question. She'd seen the two arrive together, recorded it and written it down. It was on cameras. She claimed to hear quite horrific noises coming from the room they had occupied, before seeing Gluskin, wearing a different outfit with a large bag he hadn't arrived with, leave the motel by himself. She said she'd never seen the woman after that. In fact, she had been declared missing for almost eight months, before her rotting, stinking bones had been uncovered in a quarry more than two hundred miles away.

But she had only worked the night shift _eight damned months ago,_ and that would be Peacock's downfall.

 

  
The bedroom looked a landfill sight that had been disassembled in a raging category five hurricane.

Waylon flung various pairs of trousers over his head: black slacks, blue slacks, jeans, pinstriped, shorts and just about everything else one could shove onto their legs - quietly cussing to himself in his underwear as he emptied the closet of it's remains.

"I swear I had a clean pair, somewhere..." He muttered in frustration, perhaps to no one in particular, but Miles (who had been leaning in the doorway looking rather unimpressed) had responded with an impatient:

"Well you'd better hurry up and find them. We need to get going in less than twenty minutes."

To that, Waylon emitted a long groan of frustration laced in panic, and continued to dig though his belongings.

"How do you _not_ have a... _\- ah hah_." Miles reached down and scooped up a pair of black slacks, brushing them off with a harsh palm. "What about these, Way? These are fine."

Way returned his attention to Miles.

"Too small. They come way above my ankle. And they're like a vice around my legs."

"Wear your black boots. It'll be fine, Way. Just hurry up."

With a prolonged sigh of annoyance, Waylon walked to Miles and snatched the trousers in question with an unimpressed side glance, which Miles shrugged off.

"I'll be downstairs."

Waylon pushed the door closed as Miles left and frowned at the fabric in defeat. They couldn't be that bad.

 

  
No. He was wrong.

Sure they weren't awful, but they were far from ideal.

And the ankle high boots did solve the length issue, for the most part.

But they were unforgivingly tight.

They hugged every crevice of his lower half, squeezing against his thighs, making the backs of his knees ache from the lack of circulation. The bottoms weren't so bad, and fit like a pair of skinny jeans, but the higher half had down right refused to give Waylon any leeway.

So, naturally, he wanted to cry. But right after that, he wanted to scold Miles for the suggestion.

"Miles you blithering dick, what did I tell you?" Waylon damn near screeched as he subtly waddled down the stairs, where Miles was sat in the kitchen with an open file under his nose.

A smirk arouse on the profiler's face.

" _No_. Don't you dare fucking laugh at me, this was _your_ suggestion." Way growled, raising a warning finger.

"Hah, no it's not that it looks _that_ bad it's just... It wasn't what I was expecting, that's all." Miles attempted to reassure, before he added a, "Give us a twirl."

Waylon flipped him off before doing as he was told, and doing a 360 turn on the spot.

"Yeah, no it's fine. They don't look like slacks. They're quite, uh..."

"Tight."

"Mmh. But you know, if you've got it, may as well show it."

"What?" Waylon snapped, unsure of what to make of Miles' comment.

Miles peered up at him expectantly and chuckled.

"Are you saying I have a nice ass, Miles?"

The profiler shrugged. "It ain't bad for a dude."

Waylon's face flared, "Why were you looking?"

"You turned around."

"You asked me to."

Miles laughed, shaking his head in defeat. "Don't worry, I wouldn't tap it if you begged me to."

"God, Miles you've always gotta make it gross."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and get your shit together, we're going in two minutes."

 

 

  
The drive to the court was long and one that Waylon had taken many times, but felt strangely unfamiliar this time around.

He was rather uncharacteristically nervous (regarding the situation), and had gnawed on his lip for the entire ride. Many times he had done this, and couldn't remember feeling quite this uneasy in years, if not ever, about merely a hearing.

It was a peculiar feeling, like it was _his_ fate being decided.

The nervousness had swelled to the point where Waylon thought he might've throw up, and he hated it. But by that time, the two men had arrived at their destination.

The sight of the prisoner transportation unit had made Waylon's gut clench, and Miles had caught it, giving him a concerned half glance.

"You okay?"

"No. I've done this a million times, Miles. Why am I so..."

Park raised his hands. They were trembling.

Miles watched in curiosity. "Maybe the lack of blood in your legs is getting to you."

That had made Waylon huff a chuckle. He'd always appreciated Miles' more humorous approach at comfort, even though it wasn't always fitting for the situation.

"Yeah." Waylon finally breathed. "Yeah, let's do this."

They left the car in near perfect sync, and strode out into the gentle breeze. Waylon welcomed it, it helped be rid of the sickly stirring anxiety in his gut.

The doors to the courthouse were open, they were probably running a little late, but not significantly.

They entered, surrounded by scarce conversation. The atmosphere wasn't pleasant, almost stressful and tense: people shifted and frantically fanned themselves with their hands in a sort of over stimulated frenzy. Waylon wasn't sure how long they had been waiting for to get themselves all worked up like that.

Miles sighed in preparation, before nodding to Waylon and making his way to the balcony story, parting ways with Park with nothing more than an encouraging nod.

Waylon made for his assigned seat, his legs now adjusted to the feeling of walking in such tight trousers, but he was more than aware of the sores he would most likely get on the backs of his knees.

He was sat uncomfortably, both physically in the tight fabric, and mentally as he anticipated the arrival of the judge, and equally as importantly/terrifyingly, his defendant.

He glanced up to where he knew Miles would be sat, where he always sat. He was talking to a lady next to him, someone Waylon recognised from somewhere - she probably worked in the same field as the profiler, most likely a colleague - older, pretty. It wasn't like Miles to actively talk to people he didn't know nor care about, so it was oddly reassuring to see that the man could communicate like a human being.

A familiar rattle of chains had snapped Waylon out of his train of thought.

He knew who it was, his jingling footsteps accompanied by multiple heavy booted others - guards.

Park wanted to turn around and stare, probably just like they rest of them were judging by the rather abrupt silence that fell over the courthouse, poisoning it with a chilling eeriness.

The sound increased in volume as the man got closer, and Waylon's heart pounded. He felt the man's eyes burning into the back of his skull like lasers, and as a foolish decision, Park twisted his head to meet the gaze.

And he'd been right. Gluskin's eyes were hard, icy as they challenged Waylon's soft blues. The all too familiar feeling of blinding hatred tickled the hairs on his spine as he snapped the eye contact in spite.

Waylon knew that Eddie was a big guy, but standing up straight the man was fucking enormous. Most of the guards stood at almost a head shorter than Gluskin, dwarfing them against his massive, hard frame that had him tangled in chains and hoops around his hands, feet and torso like a ravenous beast.

Waylon's heart pounded against his chest hard enough that he thought it might burst from his chest and soak the place in his fear-ridden blood.

So he turned his head away, figuring the view in front of him was much less challenging.

But Eddie was already right there - as if Park had been prey, hunted down and there was no way to escape now that he lay limp in the beast's maw, giving himself up to the monster.

_Oh you would, wouldn't you?_

Waylon drummed his fingers against his thighs as the man was placed beside him, the guards backing away to stand a respectable distance from the two.

It was silent for just a moment - a precious moment that Way would savor, before Gluskin chimed a:

"You look like you've seen a ghost, my dear. Frightened? Or perhaps you're trembling with excitement, I aught not make assumptions."

Waylon didn't need to look at Eddie, he heard the sly grin in his tone.

"Someone's talkative. Usually it would make a nice change." Park remarked snidely.

"My, that was quite rude. I was just trying to lighten the mood a little." There was nothing sincere about Gluskin's words, each letter riddled with a mocking stab.

"Funny," Waylon began, one leg over the other, "I didn't take you to be a talker. I aught not make assumptions."

This time, Waylon did give Eddie a cold sideways glare as he echoed the other's words, and basked in the way the his harsh features twisted into aggression.

The moment was short lived, snatched away by the sound of the judge's arrival.

"All rise."

They did so, the shifting of fabric accompanied by the chinking of metal beside him.

Waylon could see out of the corner of his eye Eddie's large head craned down, eyes running over Way's frame in the same manner that had previously made his skin crawl. He wasn't sure how a simple look could feel so desperately invasive, but it did.

A tingled flushed through Waylon's body and his legs wanted to buckle at the sheer pressure of Gluskin's predatory stare, so in a bid for redemption, Way uttered a quiet:

"What, am I distracting you?"

Gluskin's face faltered into unfiltered hatred as they reseated themselves once more.

"You look like a cheap whore in those." The response was bold yet quiet, nothing left for the imagination to dwell on.

Park smirked, the initial wave of insult brushing off within a matter of seconds.

Before he could reply, the harsh thump of the judge's gavel reverberated through the grand courtroom.

"The hearing has begun." The man's voice was low, bassy and hummed through the room, Way could feel it in his feet. "Prosecution, please take the stand."

Simon Peacock emerged from the other side of the room, dressed as sharply as ever and with a confident strut, stood a few paces forth.

"The prosecution demands capital sentence regarding the case of Eddie Gluskin, and the crimes that he should be rightfully punished for. Amongst other compelling evidence, our witness had proven to be psychologically healthy and well, upon professional evaluation as requested." Peacock presented an assortment of paperworks to the judge, who accepted them willingly and flicked through the pages, peering over his half crescent glasses and confirming with a nod.

"Very well. Do you wish to further elaborate?"

Simon took a confident step back. "I see no reason to at this very moment, your honor."

God, this man knew his cards and played them.

The man gave Waylon no opportunity to catch him out. He didn't overstay his position at the stand, leaving rather a lot to interpretation. He didn't over share, that left no room for mistakes either. He said what he had to to win the case, anything additional merely expanded his target for criticism.

It was a clever system the man had, and it worked.

"As you wish, Mr. Peacock. You may be seated. Defence, take the stand."

Waylon had almost wobbled as he rose. _Almost_. He wouldn't have let himself, not in a million years.

He cleared his throat with false self assurance.

"The witness was working a night shift as Gluskin had entered the building with the victim in question, and had seen him and only him leave under some admittedly suspicious circumstances. By half six in the morning, the witness' shift had ended, and she was no longer in the building. There is no evidence that the victim did not leave the building after her disappearance-"

"Objection if you will, your honor. There were three perfectly functioning security cameras - one over the door of the main entrance as one enters, one along the lobby and one in reception - that would have undoubtedly captured the woman exiting the building through the main entrance."

_Fuck you, Peacock._

The judge deadpanned. "Defence, care to elaborate?"

"Yes. As unlikely as it may seem, the victim's fingerprints - the _only_ misplaced fingerprints at the scene of the accused crime - had been found along the outer railing of the balcony, leading down to a ladder onto the balcony below. There is no reason not to suggest the possibility of the victim leaving via the balcony-"

"Objection, the key to the balcony remained with Gluskin, and was handed back into reception before he left. The balcony was locked when the police arrived at the scene."

 _Well, damn_.

Waylon exchanged a subtle glace with Eddie, who seemed to appear just as dumbfounded as the lawyer.

"Who's to say that wasn't room service? Or that Gluskin didn't lock the door behind the woman once she had left via those means?"

It was rather meek and unprofessional, but it was the only arrow left in Waylon's quiver.

And as simple as it was, it did the trick. The judge knitted his brow momentarily before eventually nodding.

"Objection overruled. Defence, do you wish to continue?"

"Yes, your honor. The links from Gluskin to his wrongly accused victims may be, to your standards, considerable. But there's an evident trend in all the cases in question of the lack of direct _physical_ evidence that Gluskin has to the scene of the crime. In fact, only once has there been enough evidence to prove that Gluskin was even there. And I ask you, how is it possible for the man to simply disappear without a trace, and are you willing to sacrifice a man's freedom based on mere assumptions?"

The judge looked considerate for a moment, as did Peacock, before eventually he voiced a:

"Yes, thank you. You may be seated. Prosecution, do you wish to add anything."

Peacock was quick to answer. "No, your honor."

"Very well. I see no reason to drag this out, in that case. I will retreat and return with the final decision."

As he did, Waylon let out a breath he hadn't been aware that he'd been holding in. But he couldn't relax, not yet.

Eddie watched Waylon through a lowered brow like a hawk. His lips curled into a sneer when Park met his stare.

"Stop looking so damn sour." The lawyer all but spat. "And stop staring at me."

Gluskin didn't even take Way's words into consideration - in one ear, out the other, lowering his eyes to the lawyers folded legs.

There was something in Gluskin's stare that Waylon simply couldn't decipher. It was disgust, hatred... but familiarity. And curiosity. The sort of curiosity that Waylon saw in spoilt young children at museums or art galleries - they're not allowed to _touch_. They can look all they want, but can't touch - and sometimes it gets a little too much, sometimes they sulk, sometimes cry, sometimes they-

"Why can't you at least _act_ modest? Aren't you supposed to be a professional?"

That really did it for Waylon. The frustration, the anxiety, the hard fucking work he had put into this case - he wasn't going to let Gluskin crush it into the dirt. Not anymore.

"Afraid I might taint your angelic reputation? Maybe you should get a shiny new lawyer who gives a _fuck_ whether you get locked up or not, because at this point I'd pay to never see your fucking face again."

Way could tell that he had struck a nerve in the man - his eyes had began to dance with those frozen flames again, rage thumping through his temples.

"Filthy slut, you're like all the others. I'll replace you in a heart beat."

Waylon could only huff a laugh of disbelief, before the judge reappeared.

Quite frankly, he couldn't give less of a toss whether Gluskin got the retrial.

_Life in prison would be good practice for when the man burns in hell._

The judge adjusted himself in his seat, as did Gluskin, who still looked as if he wanted to explode like dynamite and blow Waylon into unidentifiable chunks.

"I've decided that the previous verdict will be once again overruled. A retrial will be held. The defendant, Eddie Gluskin, will be given the option of release on a bail of fifteen thousand dollars from remand. That will be all, the hearing has been concluded, you may leave."

Chatter had began to erupt within the courtroom once more.

Waylon didn't even look at Eddie as he stood himself up and turned to face him, before hissing a, "fuck you, and fuck your case," through clenched teeth.

He swiveled on his heel, right before pausing. "And, oh yeah, you're fucking welcome."

With that, he made for the door, completely disregarding what Gluskin may have wanted to add to his outburst.

He tilted his head up to the upper balcony to see Miles scrambling past people to get to the stairs in a rather clumsy and insensitive fashion.

As he exited the main doorway from the courtroom, Way could hear the distant rattle of hostile chains clanging together. Eddie was most likely having a tantrum, the idea of which made the lawyer grit his teeth in anguish.

The fresh air hit his face like a stern palm across his cheek, launching him into a clearer mindset as he made a beeline for Miles' red jeep, situated not too far from the courthouse.

He walked quickly, his legs tingling with adrenaline. He wanted to gut Gluskin from gullet to groin, hang him by his feet and let the crows pick at his rotten innards.

Miles was hot on his tail, the rhythmic thumping of the man's jog being Way's indicator.

"Hey." Came a familiar call behind. Waylon stood next to the car and turned on his heel.

"Unlock the car."

"What happened?"

"Unlock the damn car and I'll tell you."

Miles gave into the lawyer's demand with little hesitation, fumbling for the key within his jacket pocket before clicking the center button with a bleep.

Park was quick to clamber in, and Miles followed suit.

With a weighty sigh, Miles cocked his head to look to Way, who had propped his elbows against the dashboard and ran clenching fingers through his hair.

"So... You've dropped the case-"

" _Yes_ I've dropped the fucking case. And don't you dare tell me to _recon-fucking-sider._ I've never come across such a vile creature in my life! Narcissistic fucking delusional  _psycho_." Waylon's teeth ached, his jaw a little more defined as he clenched it hard. His nails hurt his scalp as they clawed into the tender flesh, but he didn't care.

Miles was quiet, understanding. Wouldn't press Waylon, not until the man had calmed himself down.

Instead, he concluded the conversation with an, "Alright. Okay, let's get home."

 

 

 

Waylon had convinced Miles to drop him wherever he was stopping. He'd wanted to clear his skull from the clammy frustration that fogged his brain.

The walk had only taken half an hour, but Park had so desperately needed it.

He wasn't stupid, he knew that Miles had been upset about Way dropping the case. But the retrial would certainly proceed, so Miles would simply have to work his way around slyly sneaking information from an unfamiliar lawyer.

He'd come home to a house, as he had been for the last few weeks. Everything that made his home feel homey was there, except Lisa. Like looking at an unlit chandelier - beautiful with a bulb, but too dark to appreciate it without one.

He hadn't even locked his door as he skulked up the staircase that felt achingly longer than usual.

His eyes read the clock in the landing. It was early evening still, half six to be exact, but Waylon didn't care. He felt exhausted to the very core, his head heavy and thoughts slurred with fatigue. Sleep was about the only thing he wanted to do.

So he shed his upper half and kicked off his boots and socks on the landing - an addition to the shitty state of the house - and crawled into the dirty sheets of his bed.

His trousers, just as tight and restricting as before, had proven uncomfortable to sleep in, but Way had figured that taking them off would use up far too much of his energy, so they stayed on as he drifted off.

It was still respectably bright outside, but Waylon didn't give it a moment of care. He couldn't be bothered to.

And after a mere half hour of laying down, Waylon fell into an uneasy slumber.

 

 

  
The lawyer's head jolted upward from his pillow.

The room was silent, thick with suspense.

It was dark, pitch black. His eyes darted from the distant corner then back to the open doorway. He couldn't see a thing besides the tiny red light that blinked on his smoke alarm in the landing, and even that was distant along the hallway.

Then the knocking again; it was the very sound that had woken him up. Polite yet frantic.

Park wasn't phased by the interruption, figuring ( _hoping_ ) that it was coming from behind his front door.

It was probably a young, drunk girl that had stumbled out of the nearby nightclub and was absolutely dying for a piss, and in a desperate bid to not get done for public urination again, had knocked on a stranger's door. Oddly specific, Waylon knew, but had happened to him and Lisa or more than a dozen occasions. Lisa would always ask if they wanted to crash on their couch, would always remind them how dangerous it was to knock on stranger's doors when they're drunk and vulnerable. Way had always admired the natural motherly role that Lisa would adopt. She would make a wonderful mother, if the two ever decided that that was the route they wanted to take.

Kicking himself out of bed with plaguing reluctance, Waylon rubbed a little sleep dust from his eyes before feeling his way to the door, bare feet almost silent against the ground.

He sighed to himself, brain hazy still dopey with sleepiness as he descended down the corridor and stairs, steadying himself against the bannister.

The street lamp outside his front door illuminated a silhouette before his doorway.

The dark shape was large: far larger than he had expected, but in the thick haze of sleep, he opened the door without caution, his guard lowered.

He took less than a moment to glance up and instantly regret ever opening that door.

It had certainly woken him up.

His body jolted a whole two feet back, scrambling legs falling in a heap and making Waylon thump onto his coccyx rather painfully.

He craned his head up, eyes huge and pleading as the man loomed over him.

" _Hello, Darling."_

A swift foot to the side of Waylon's head had certainly sent the man back into his previous state of slumber.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Bitter Almonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early again!? God I'm spoiling y'all. Just kidding, this is to make up for all the late ones that there will inevitably be in the future. 
> 
> Sorry in advance.
> 
> This chapter has some odd stuff in it so uh, heads up.
> 
> Enjoy my pals, please leave comments, kudos, the sort. Put a big smile on my face. 
> 
> X

 

Waylon's mind had woken up much before his body had, which flopped flaccidly in what he could determine to be a sitting position. There was a quiet rumble of an engine, crisp crunch of tyres against a stony, unkept road and familiar bumps and jolts of a soft seat below him that had proven him to be in a car.

The car smelt unfamiliar, like sandalwood and bitter almonds and tinged with a metallic tang.

A seatbelt rubbed unforgivingly against his tender collar bone with every subtle movement, and his head pounded - worse than any hangover, any migraine he had ever experienced. His wrists were behind his back, he had figured, his fingertips icy cold in a chilly sweat and wrists grinding together until they were sore.

They were tied.

_What?_

Suddenly, Waylon felt his brain kick into gear as his eyes burst open, instinct surging through him like a bullet. They took a moment to adjust to the gentle lighting of (what Way had assumed to be) very early morning, fuzz and orbs of light dancing behind his pupils before they could clear.

He saw his legs, familiar - as was his bare torso. Slowly, he cocked his heavy head to the driver side, neck drooping in a struggle to carry his lolling brain.

Waylon's throat tightened, feeling as if it were going to collapse, suffocating him, his brain startled into dread induced paralysis.

 _How_?

Eddie Gluskin sat at the wheel of the foreign vehicle, humming a blissful tune to himself, drumming his fingers against the wheel in blissful glee.

Then his survival instinct kicked in, harsh and instructive like the hands of a cruel mistress.

His pulse had raised from nought to one-hundred in an instant as he began to thrash in his seat, wrists straining behind the chair, slamming his pounding body with brute force back and forth, back and forth.

Eddie gave an apathetic glance.

"Ah. You're awake then. Couldn't have given me a more subtle indication, dear?"

God, his voice was so nonchalant, so void of empathy - it made Waylon want to sob aloud until his eyes were dry.

But first he'd have to figure out whether this was actually happening, figure out if this was just another one of his fucking sick and twisted dreams.

"I'm sorry I had to be so brash regarding your... _anesthetic_. I tried to make it a clean hit but you bled a spot. You're a little more tender than I'd thought." Gluskin chimed, sweet as a songbird's tune.

Waylon's body had gone limp in it's place again, chest heaving in the beginnings of a panic attack. The initial shock had been replaced with a thick, dark and desperate hatred, laced with the undying desire to crack this man's skull wide open, watch him bleed out, and then escape.

But his world still spun. Everything felt so... _surreal_. He had to be dreaming.

When he spoke, his voice was merely a raspy whisper, low and rumbling like a growl.

"What the fuck do you want from me? Let... Let me go. Now."

He had tried to be assertive, he really had, but his voice had betrayed him - in his brain he sounded like a mewling kitten, begging to escape the hungry maw of a pitbull.

Gluskin laughed darkly, absent of any humor. "Don't be silly darling, I didn't do this all for nothing."

"Don't be fucking-" a chocked sob "- _stupid_..."

That was better. Waylon words bled with genuine, spiteful detest.

The blissful demeanor of Eddie had slipped into something far more morbid and unpredictable, his fingers tightening on the wheel a noticeable fraction.

"You think people won't look for me? You... You..." Waylon swallowed as Eddie began to slow down along the remote little road they had been heading down, teeth gritted, knuckles whitening.

The surreality hadn't subsided, Waylon couldn't feel his toes, couldn't clear his head, didn't really know what the fuck he was doing or what he could do, and how the fuck Gluskin had found him. So, as if he had a god damn death wish - _fuck it, do I?_ \- he continued to press his agitated captor.

"Within hours of me not showing up... at work... They'll look for me. Stupid fuckin-"

A sharp back-handed slap to the side of Park's face had caused his head to jerk in the opposite direction he had previously been facing, sharp pain consuming his face within an instant.

"Shut your filthy mouth." Eddie's voice was venomous as he stopped the car, pulling onto the side of the track and hoisting the clutch up.

He turned in his seat to face Waylon, who's head was bowed low, the abused side of his face becoming hot and undoubtedly pink.

"Hormonal bitch, stop being so fucking hysterical. I would have explained everything, had you not called me such vile things-"

"You've fucking got me hostage-" Waylon had began to exasperate before being met with another blow to the face, this time with a balled fist.

It wasn't hard, nowhere near as hard as Eddie was capable of, but nonetheless it fucking ached like the devils work.

Waylon let out a strained yelp, attempting to cower his head further into his chest.

"I said shut up!"

Gluskin was positively fuming, and a horrid part of Waylon couldn't help but smirk sadistically at the pang of pride in his chest. It felt so very oddly rewarding being able to wind up the man like a spring and watch him explode.

 _Stop it. Fucking stop_.

A reflective glow caught Waylon's eye as he lifted his head to glace at Eddie.

Eddie was holding a knife firmly in his palm; it was a fine piece of metal with a clean, narrow tip and handsome curve, the base jagged like the innards of a shark's maw.

Adrenaline throbbed through Park's body, eyes widening, entire frame becoming tense and nerves flickering like firecrackers under his skin.

"We don't want to have to use this on you, do we?" Gluskin cooed, voice heavy with deviance.

Waylon was silent, rigid, eyes locked onto the offending blade. His chest heaved as he nervously sucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Hm. I didn't think so."

Gluskin shifted forward, the leather seats croaking in protest as in one graceful moment, he bought the knife to ghost over Waylon's exposed throat.

Way pushed his head back against the headrest as desperately hard as he could, attempting to distance himself from the knife. He tilted his chin up and swallowed hard, feeling his gullet bounce against the metal.

"You'll be nice and quiet for me, won't you, dear?"

Eddie's voice was low, manipulative, rumbling like a raptor's growl smothered in thick sadism.

Waylon could tell the man's sight had diverted from his face, and now scanned over his bare, heaving chest, ribs shallow under the skin.

Park nodded quickly in response to Eddie's question and as he felt the knife press against his throat - he held his breath in his lungs, clenched his eyes shut and bit down harder onto his aching lip.

"Good. Nice and obedient."

God, the atmosphere felt so thick - thick enough to be cut like butter. Fear, adrenaline and utter dread radiated from Waylon in crashing waves like the early tellings of a hurricane, causing his body to begin to sheen with a cold and feverish sweat. His arteries pounded, ready to run, ready to fight - his body was trembling with it. Fear bled into Gluskin's focused demeanor like fire to gasoline. The man thrived off of Waylon's terror, lapped it up like a hungry hound on the near scent of a doe.

Eddie was close enough that Way could feel the man's steady, cold breath fall over his exposed shoulder, his penetrative gaze only breaking when a wet click could be heard from the innards of Waylon mouth.

The sound of Waylon's teeth puncturing his lip.

He opened his jaw as the thick liquid began to flood heavily into his mouth, the taste sickeningly familiar.

Gluskin seemed more than a little shocked to see the bloodstained teeth, coated lips and tongue - and startled back a few inches with wide eyes and slackened lips.

 _Jesus fucking Christ that had hurt_.

The knife to his throat was lowered, as Waylon sobbed in a breath of air.

Gluskin had gone quiet, his breath no longer audible, nor could Waylon feel it over his body.

Concern provoked Waylon to look to the man beside him, who now held his knife limply at Park's collar bone. His eyes had blown wide, pupils hugely larger as the piercing blues watched Waylon's lip begin to flood his mouth and slide down his chin.

Waylon felt his guts churn.

It was that very same look he had seen in interrogation room, only this time Gluskin was holding a knife in his hand - and Waylon was bound up, defenceless, confused and fearful.

And as he had expected, Eddie's dumbfounded demeanor didn't stick around, and was quickly replaced with a twisted grin and a tightening grip on the knife, malicious eyes that promised menace.

Waylon's silvery blue's widened to golf balls, shaking his head in frantic terror. "I'm s-sorry! Please don't..."

"I didn't even have to try. Look at you. You've made yourself so red for me, darling. Wet..."

Eddie pressed the knife just below Waylon's collar bones and pushed ever so gently in a way that could be easily mistaken for tenderness, the milky skin giving way to the invasive object and spitting open.

Waylon writhed under the knife, hissing as if pressed shallowly into his skin. The pain was warm but the knife was cold, stinging and aching, but far from unbearable. So Waylon figured exactly what he would try and do: bare it. Bare it until he broke, passed out, fucking died.

Waylon's life was at Eddie's disposal, and he could do absolutely nothing about it.

The lawyer's breath was ragged as he sobbed a yelp of distress, the knife dragging a little lower with a gradual tug at his skin.

Eddie's eyes had been fixed on the knife against Waylon's trembling chest, admiring the gentle streams that the warm liquid left behind so boldly, bobbing up as beads above the surface before splitting into fresh trails of red.

A droplet of blood tickled Waylon's chin, before it rolled of bravely and landed onto the harsh skin of Eddie's hand.

It took the man by surprise, jolting at the wet feeling as it influenced another droplet to do the same.

His eyes snapped up to Waylon's, and Waylon yelped at the intensity of the biting glare, fortified with deviance and heinous intent.

"Slut. Dirty, dirty _slut_." Eddie scolded, lifting his hand slowly - sensually - before dragging his tongue across his skin with a hum. "You taste as good as I remember. My goodness, you're a delicacy."

Waylon's breath stuttered, his brain beginning to fog clumsily, the adrenaline that flooded his limbs and chest with fear had lit a dangerous, dangerous spark in his abdomen.

 _Excitement_.

And by God, did Waylon ever hate himself for it. He cursed his shamefully masochistic tendencies for being so fucking responsive as he held his breath once more, wishing for it to disappear completely.

His chest was bleeding heavily despite the cut being so shallow, the warmth oozing down his stomach and tickling his lower abdomen.

Eddie had returned the knife to where he'd left off, continuing to drag the blade down, press a little harder.

Waylon caught his sodden lip again, tongue subtly probing the split in guilty self indulgence.

_Oh god, don't forgive me._

Park didn't want the monster to return, the one he had discovered in the bathroom of the motel, but slowly he had found it crawling into his conscience, unwelcome and invasive, but flirtatious with sinful and coquettish intentions.

And no matted how hard Way had tried to swallow it, a vulgar hum erupted from his throat.

Eddie froze at the sound, visually perplexed.

Waylon's face bloomed with utter shame.

"You... You _liked_ that?"

The lawyer refused eye contact, chest wavering as he whimpered quietly at the overwhelming intensity of Gluskin's stare, riddled with cruel judgement.

Eddie barked a sadistic laugh.

"Of course you do. You love it, don't you? Love it when I open you up and taste you..."

Gluskin's fingers reached out and dragged a digit along the open cut after dropping the knife into Waylon's lap, landing on his trembling legs.

Park flinched at the flaring pain, but for whatever fucked up reason, pushed his chest up against the intruding digit, letting it slip between the shallow crevice.

"There you go, good. You like that? " Gluskin purred, his voice a steady whisper, dangerously close to the shell of Waylon's ear.

 _Yes. Yes, yes, yes_.

Truth be told, Waylon had no fucking idea what had come over him, what had made his lips part in bliss, what had made him huff a breathy laugh of disbelief at himself - his own disgraceful actions, what had made a jolt of arousal nip at his gut, bleeding into the consuming shame.

"Tell me what you want, you slut."

God, Eddie's finger was so slow, sensual across that achingly wet cut and Waylon fucking hated it, despised it - but he needed so much more.

So in a bold feat of bravery, Way uttered a quiet:

"Untie me first."

Gluskin was quick to huff and exasperated laugh, before moving away from Waylon completely, but abandoning the bloody knife on the shaking man's thighs.

Shamefully, Waylon found himself yearning for the intimacy to return.

"How sweet of you to think I would fall into that little trap, dear." He bit, reaching into the back of the car and grabbing a plain black towel, which he threw over Waylon.

Waylon cocked his head in confusion, disorientation.

"If you want to indulge, you'll have to earn it, darling." Gluskin stated matter-of-factly, before grabbing the clutch again and beginning to move forward once more. "But you'll figure it out, eventually."

And just like that, the sickly beast within Waylon had gone, leaving him with unrelenting shame and disgust - not to mention the sheer amount of pain his body was in. It throbbed and ached terribly, the blood on his torso beginning to dry in some places, making Waylon feel sticky and filthy.

 _Disgusting_.

Head spinning, he returned his gaze to Gluskin, who had began to continue his driving like nothing had ever happened, and Waylon felt oddly enviously of his blissful naivety.

It felt odd seeing the man in formal clothing and not a prisoner's jumpsuit. Way scanned the man, his button up white shirt, his black slacks-

Waylon's breath clustered in his throat for a reason he could not determine - or could, but refused to.

As his gaze hit Gluskin's groin, he realized that the man's cock was half hard, indenting his pristine attire.

Waylon stifled a laugh.

_Sadistic fucking pervert._

Unexpectedly, the lawyer's vision began to blotch with dark patches, his head feather light, his stomach uncomfortably clenching.

_Here we go..._

He panted, before slumping forward, arms restricting him from thumping his head against the dashboard, seatbelt zipping in a jerking motion as his body flopped like a rag doll.

Before he could panic, Waylon began to slip out of consciousness, feeling his bloody mouth drip into his thighs, onto the knife.

Beside him was a tutting noise, mocking and cruel, followed by, "Oh, don't tell me your all dopey again. Honestly, darling, you're a real handful."

Waylon attempted to move his lips, attempted to claim his awakened state, before making an incoherent groaning noise and falling into the dark abyss of unconsciousness, as predicted.

 

 

  
Waylon had awoken to the wonderful aroma of takeaway fries.

He shifted with difficulty, before realising that he was laying down along the backseat with his belly up, the bumpy car still knocking and jerking his aching body about.

Swinging his bound legs over the seat, Waylon sat up hurriedly, his head still throbbing like a bitch as he cringed at the pain that had yet to subside.

He'd noticed that he was in the back of the car, laying across the two seats with a bag stuffed under his head as a makeshift pillow, it didn't do much for comfort but Way supposed that his unconscious body couldn't care less.

A large coat had been slung around his shoulders, as Way realised that his hands were now bound in front of him and not behind like they previously were.

Park gave it a moment of contemplation, before pushing the minor thought aside. Currently, there were far more pressing issues to focus on.

It was cable ties that he had been roped up with, thick and black and too tight around his arms and legs, squeezing against his skin and veins and pushing the flesh in where they gripped.

And the gash across his chest - it was clean. There was no remaining blood on his pale skin that he could see, and the slit itself was glossy with a clear liquid that covered it, thick as it wept.

Way ran his tongue over his lip. The split was big, hot to the touch and swollen like a bee sting, but again, clean.

"Nice to see you awake again, darling." Eddie spoke in a monotonous voice, a hint of boredom, yet still possessing an odd sort of finesse to his warm tone.

"I want fries." Waylon blurted, his stomach giving a weak gurgle as if on cue.

Gluskin coughed a laugh. "Those are mine, but I did get you this,"

Eddie tugged a plastic bag out from under the passenger footwell and tossed it into the back, careless of where it landed.

Waylon was quick (well, as quick as one could be when tied up like a hog) to scramble for it, rifling through it's contents.

The innards of the bag consisted of four bottles of water, raw spinach, two apples, a packet of hard boiled candies and literally the biggest bag of peanuts Waylon had _ever_ seen.

To say the lawyer was disappointed would be greatly charitable of him.

"What..?"

"You need to keep your sugar levels up. The spinach is for your iron. Unfortunately, if you don't eat it, I'll force you to."

Waylon sighed, his hunger subsiding a little.

He furrowed his brow. "On the topic of doing things without my consent, why am I here? How did you-"

"Because I need a lawyer and you're the best chance I have."

It had been the most sincere thing that Waylon had ever heard come out of the man's mouth, and he supposed he understood on some sort of level, but to a vast extent, Waylon's brain still brimmed with questions. He wanted to make assumptions, accusations, but the lawyer in him wished for their justification. Waylon understood where the guy was coming from, but the lengths that he was willing to go had threatened to border on hilarity.

"Couldn't have just asked nicely?"

"Don't test me, now. You asked, I answered."

Waylon wanted to snicker at the man, but knew he didn't have the balls. So mockingly, he added a: "And what makes you think I'm going to be your lawyer after you pull a stunt like this?"

Eddie was almost hesitant to answer. He'd seemed to slip something out of his back pocket with professional subtly.

His hand reemerged, twisting behind him to point a handgun directly at Waylon's forehead.

The lawyer's eyes blew wide as he stared down the promising barrel of the gun.

" _This_."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Nicotine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this late? I think technically it's early but it's been over a week since I posted so, I dunno, you decide. I post everytime I finish a chapter, I don't really have a schedule anymore.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter isn't a favorite of mine. It's pretty slow and mostly context I think.
> 
> However, we're approaching the really good stuff, which I'm excited to share. 
> 
> Oh, just remember, if you're a little confused in this chapter, everything becomes relevant later on. 
> 
> That's all I think! You know the drill: comments, kudos - I love em.
> 
>  
> 
> X

 

Waylon had sat quietly in the back of Eddie's car for what felt like hours in a white, dangerous silence, apart from the soft munching of his teeth against a solid apple, and even that he had tried to keep on a down low.

His head was so full of questions that it practically ached, but the sight of a very real weapon in Gluskin's back pocket - or wherever it now was - was enough of a reason to stay hushed for a good while, keep his wits about him.

Eddie hummed now and again, always the same song - Waylon had even began to learn the tune, and perhaps in another situation it would be something other than desperately eerie.

They'd been riding along a stretch of dusty tarmac for a good hour, it seemed continuous, dragging on like a bad movie but going nowhere, as if it was the same now as it was a mile ago.

Waylon had no idea how long it had actually been in all honesty, his frequent visits with unconsciousness had thrown him way off, but he had assumed that it had only been less than a day, as the sky had just began to darken into a faded lilac.

Eddie had taken a right onto a narrow stretch of bumpy road, boarded off with tall oak trees and whisps of thorn bushes, he had even caught sight of the white hind of a deer bounding off into the distance, a small and elegant thing.

It was quiet, Eddie wasn't humming, Waylon wasn't chewing on an apple.

Gluskin pulled into a flat open field, the car bumping and tossing about on the unfamiliar grounding - clearly not built for such things - and then parked along a disheveled hedge line. The low growing branches scraped the top and sides of the car unceremoniously as Gluskin tucked it in, Park couldn't help but cringe a little at the sound, and cost of a due fresh paint job.

  
The field was full of randomly situated oak trees, much younger and smaller than the ones along the track. They didn't look purposefully planted, their positioning far too disorderly to be deliberate.

The area was peaceful, quiet.

"We can sleep here tonight." Eddie stated with no desire to arise a conversation, so Waylon didn't try to conduct one.

The lawyer hummed in dissatisfaction. "I need the toilet."

Eddie growled, a little frustrated. Not really angry, just inconvenienced.

He pushed his door open with a huff, clambering out before unlocking Waylon's and leaning into the car. He unsheathed an unfamiliar knife from his pocket before rather brashly grabbing the other man's legs and sliding him forward.

Park jolted at the sudden contact, suddenly fighting the urge to snatch his legs from the man's grasp.

Eddie shifted so that he was kneeling over Waylon's bound ankles, and in the dark, caught the lawyer's eyes on his.

Waylon's stare was hard as it met Eddie's - bleeding a surplus of indecipherable emotions - and the man with the knife stopped in motion.

They'd both realised it, the odd sense of power they both possessed. Waylon could kick the shit out of Eddie, one clean blow to the head and he was out cold. He could drive home, call Lisa and get this man locked up for good. Or press the gun to his head and be done with it - _Christ, he really could_. But Eddie's beating stare was a counterargument in itself; if Way were to miss or not get a clean enough shot, Eddie was the guy with a knife and a gun to hand, and a potential conviction for mass murder - and that kind of power you don't fuck with.

The thought was there, present in both of their minds.

_I could kill this man. Right now._

Gluskin's knife tore away the cable tie at Way's feet, but he remained in his position for a long moment, looming over Waylon.

The cold breeze from the open door tickled Way's exposed chest, the coat shucking off his shoulders when Way shifted subtly to accommodate to Gluskin's unannounced over-stay.

Slowly, Way propped himself up onto the other door, eye contact not faltering between the two as he did so.

Eddie climbed into the car a little more, inching closer by a miniscule amount.

In that moment they felt like two animals, each dangerous in their own way, circling and prowling. They never dropped their sharp gaze, just looped around each other, anticipating a first move that may never come.

Yes, they wanted to kill each other. _Really_ wanted to.

Waylon, without fully registering his own actions, arched his knees away from each other, opening his legs and tucking his feet up to his buttocks.

Neither knew if the lawyer had been readying himself to lash out, or whether the gesture had been... an invitation.

Eddie broke the eye contact in an instant, and quickly scooted out of the car again with a hard hold of Waylon's leg, dragging him out along with him.

The lawyer had wobbled uneasily as his feet hit the cold grass. At this point, running away wasn't even a consideration. His captor had a gun, a car, and was in significantly better shape than him. It would be a fucking suicide mission.

As the cold air hit his body, the gash in his chest flared with a throbbing ache - a reminder of it's presence.

"Go behind that tree, don't fret, I won't watch you. If you try to run, I'll break one of your legs and make you break the other one yourself, so let's not play silly games now."

Well that seemed like a good enough reason to stick around for the meantime.

Eddie did as promised and turned around as Way headed to his assigned tree to relieve himself.

He had unzipped his fly without an issue, but zipping up his ridiculously tight lower garment had proven to be impossible with his hands bound. Tucking his dick away was enough work as it was.

As he turned and headed for the car again, the familiar whiff of cigarettes smoke caught in his nose. He raised a curious brow.

"You smoke?" He asked in a pondering tone.

"No, actually. I never did before prison either. I don't know why though, this is quite incredible. I wouldn't condone it, mind you." Gluskin stated as he flicked the ash from his cigarette that he held loosely between his fingers.

Waylon hummed knowingly, raising his bound hands to snatch the cigarette from Eddie and place it between his lips.

He took a long drag, fluttering his eyes shut. Holding it between his teeth, he exhaled a sigh. Smoke flooded from his nostrils and mouth as he slumped against the side of the car.

He plucked it out of his mouth and handed it back to Gluskin, who's expression had been quite unexpected.

Waylon had expected to piss the man off for stealing his smoke right from his hand, but Eddie looked far from it.

He ran an intrigued gaze over Waylon's frame before meeting his face again. His eyes were dark, heavy, focused - his face had become stiff, hard, brows twitching. The man looked incredibly conflicted, and shifted uneasily on his spot a little.

Waylon met Gluskin's eyes with his own, half lidded and deep within them, a promise of deviance.

Gluskin glanced away again reluctantly, taking another shaky drag of his cigarette.

Once he had finished, he actually offered the cigarette to Waylon, who accepted without hindrance.

This time around, Way took his sweet time in taking a long, heavy drag. He basked in the cradling feeling of assurance that nicotine gave him that he had so desperately missed since his rebellious collage years.

And Eddie looked just as mesmerized, just as conflicted as the first time. There was an element of amusement within his eye that Way wouldn't fail to catch for the world.

This man, _Eddie Gluskin_ , spiked a sort of curiosity within Waylon that exhausted him to his very core, yet reeled him in for more.

The man looked rather deep in thought, his back pressed against the car with his huge arms against the roof, and lazy fingers tapping against the metal roof with a blunt thump. His sight diverted back to Waylon, who was thoroughly examining the thick cable tie around his slender wrists.

Eddie laughed humbly. "I wouldn't chew them if I were you. I think your teeth look rather nice in your mouth, I would hate to have to take them out. "

Park swallowed thickly, meeting Eddie's eye line. There was no glimmer of an empty promise within that stare, and the blonde began to feel his palms beginning to moisten.

"I wasn't gonna. I'd figured that you probably wouldn't love that." Park dropped his gaze to his bare toes.

"Clever you."

There was a moment of silence, and in that moment, Waylon wished that he was in his own bed, in his own house, holding his wife whom he adored with a belly full of homemade meals and not fucking apples and spinach.

His mind wandered to Miles. Surely he would be looking. Surely. The guy must have called a thousand times by now, must have told Lisa.

The lawyer looked to Gluskin again, who's eyes were already on him.

"My wife, my friend... They're probably already looking for me. If they find you, your case is fucked." He spoke softly with a sigh.

Gluskin laughed anew. "Don't you worry about that. They won't, dear."

Way pushed himself from the car dragged his tied hands up to let them run over his face. "But how do you know that?"

The larger man's face was rigid for a second, before it cracked into a tender grin. "I'd kept your phone, and you were right. They called a few times, so I told them that you had fallen, hit your head quite hard and I had taken you to hospital,"

Way's face dropped.

"I had said that I were an old friend planning on making a surprise visit and I had seen you laying across the floor. It was your profiler friend that concerned me - _Miles_ , was it? Ah, yes. After all, he had seen my face before.  Never heard my voice though. The other one however, the female - easy to fool. Silly girl had even started to cry." Eddie had continued fluently. "I don't have the phone anymore, of course. That would be foolish."

So, there really was no one looking for him.

The lawyer slumped in melancholic defeat against Gluskin's motor.

Eddie tutted at the man. "Oh, there's really no need to sulk dear. Do you not trust that I will take care of you like a good man should?"

 _A good man doesn't kidnap his fucking lawyer_.

Waylon took a quiet moment before he answered in a monotone drone. He had no intention of answering the question, he wasn't even sure if Gluskin had wanted an answer.

It was a harrowing thought, knowing that not only was there nobody looking, but nobody would know where to find him. This man, this accused murderer, was notoriously known to cover his tracks in such a way that made him undeniably invisible.

But under the thick layer of distraught, Waylon knew that eventually the two would have to return in order for Waylon to do the very thing that he was here for.

He watched how Eddie's spare hand fiddled with a lighter, igniting it on occasion and letting the flame simmer, before fluttering and burning out.

"Why did you need me here? Why didn't you just shove a gun to my head and tell me to do your case then leave me to it?" The lawyer questioned. There was no spite nor harm in his voice, just a depressing and hopeless sort of curiosity.

To this, Eddie thinned his lips in consideration, before huffing. "Company is a wonderful thing. I've been awfully alone for a fair few years. You're an easy one too, in fact I'm quite flattered at your... Hm, how do I put this...?" He pressed the lighter to his chin in deliberation. "Well, willingness, in lack of a better term."

Park shook his head, dumbfounded. "Does _this_ ," - he raised his restricted arms - "look willing to you?"

Eddie gave a nonchalant glance. "But my dear, you've been so deferentially obedient. You've not even tried to run. Forgive me, perhaps I am misunderstood, but you've just been so good in comparison to the others."

"The others?"

Eddie locked eyes with Waylon's wide, concerned expression.

"I'm only generalising stereotypes." Eddie had claimed, but Park's mind was elsewhere.

Eddie had been right, he hadn't tried to run. There was absolutely no doubting that given a moment of chance and no literal danger of death, Waylon would return home as quick as one could blink. But there hadn't been, so he hadn't done. He had taken a back seat, become the passenger ( _literally_ ), the sheep following the shepherd because perhaps he had wondered astray. Perhaps this godforsaken case had been a silent promise of this all along.

"If I ran," Way continued, "Where would I go? I don't know my way back, how to get home. We've been on the road for miles, we'll have to return at some point. It's not like I have a choice to do anything but wait."

"I suppose you're right. Perhaps I should bask in the glory of your subservience before you turn as bitter as the rest."

The lawyer hadn't given the statement more than a moment's thought. This man was very obviously ill, but in Gluskin's faux shell of charm it would be very easy to assume otherwise. And, although he obviously wouldn't state such a thing in court, it was blatant that the the guy had done this before on an assortment of occasions.

The night had begun to become quite considerably cooler, the lack of cloud coverage proving to be the culprit.

Eddie had retied Waylon's feet, Waylon not taking much notice, and had retreating to the car.

The lawyer had felt the man's extreme discomfort as he nudged a button to lock all four doors as a precaution.

It was thick like tar and straining on Waylon's very last nerve as he propped his legs up on the opposing seat in the back of the car and lay, puffing up the coat as best he could with his restraints before eventually bedding down. He ran his hands over his arms in one vigorous motion in an attempt to flatten down the goose bumps that had erupted over his bare skin, struggling to do so with linked wrists.

The man behind the wheel sat up in his chair, pulling a lever to lower himself downward over Way's legs.

He lay with his back towards Park, a gun so subtly slipped into his hand that Way hadn't noticed until now. And in the secretive light of the moon, his skin had a very thin sheen of moisture across it, with little beads of sweat on his neck.

The guy was over heating.

Sighing, Waylon propped himself up on his coccyx. "Why don't you take off your shirt or something?"

Gluskin huffed as if the idea was beyond preposterous. "Don't be ridiculous."

Way shook his head, before resting it down again. "Well if you change your mind, I'm fucking freezing. Freezing enough to wear another man's sweaty shirt."

A good thirty seconds passed, and Waylon was quite sure that he would simply have to shiver all night. Nevertheless, the cold breeze wasn't enough to stop his groggy eyes from fluttering.

That was before he heard the tell tale shifting of fabric, and he opened his eyes and looked to Eddie.

And surely enough, he had undone his buttons and began to tug the sleeves from his broad arms.

Common courtesy had torn Way's vision to look elsewhere as the man exposed his upper body.

It was a quick, frantic motion, as if Eddie didn't want to have enough time to think twice about it before he crumpled the fabric in his hands and thoughtlessly tossed it in Waylon's general direction.

Way didn't thank him, after all, he'd figured that Eddie would probably rather pretend like the gesture didn't happen.

Unraveling the fine material, Park slipped his skinny arms into the ocean of sweat-damp sleeve and began to button it up by only three middle buttons, allowing room for a little comfort.

The shirt was huge as he had predicted, and it swallowed Waylon's whippet like frame. The material brushed against the stinging cut that descended down his torso, but the lawyer could certainly work his way around that.

The shirt smelt, but not particularly unpleasantly. Eddie had a very masculine tinge of musk and bitter sandalwood to his scent, and it was something he hadn't previously noticed but curiously appreciated.

Although he'd never dare to admit it, Eddie smelt - in an odd sort of way - _good_. Sure, it wasn't to everybody's taste, but there was something about the smell of a man that Way could admire. Lisa had always told him that he'd smelt very lovely and feminine, but it in a good sort of way that made him seem gentle.

Eddie had visibly cooled, his previous discomfort lessened slightly.

His voice was low when he spoke an unexpected, "By the way..." which had startled Way ever so slightly. "I would like to apologise. For earlier that is - your chest. I seem to get a certain way around... Well, I shouldn't go into too much detail."

Gluskin's chest rose heavily, as if sighing in contemplation, but he didn't continue.

And Waylon didn't respond to him. He couldn't. He wouldn't have known what to say, in fact, he wasn't even sure what he was saying.

He hadn't even noticed as he drifted into an uneasy slumber.

 

 

 

 


	9. Ragdoll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone punch me in the damn throat and scream at me to get some fucking writing done goddammit. Thank you. 
> 
> Sorry this one has taken a hot min, I've had not much motivation. Saying that, I did just write most of chapter 14 in one sitting. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is okay. Some important shit happens, as always. 
> 
> So enjoy I guess. 
> 
> HOLY FUCK WAIT THIS IS CHAPTER 9 OMFG IM SO EXCITED THERE ARE SOME GOODIES SOON AAAHHHH!!!!! 
> 
> Ahem. Ignore that.
> 
> Like always, I love me a good comment and a some lovely kudos. Getting all hot and bothered just thinking about it.

  
The muted sun slipped into the window of the warming car blissfully, casting stripes of ochre rays across Waylon's fluttering eyelashes and twitching brow. He yawned deeply, ridden with a familiar dopey feeling of slumber as he stretched gently before curling his heavy limbs to the warmth of his core again.

The gentle shifting in his backseat drew Gluskin's attention to the source of the minor disturbance as he peeped at the blonde in his mirror in harmless curiosity, hands graceful and guiding on the leather wheel of the car.

Waylon groaned comfortably, eyes still pursed as he rolled lazily onto his side, brain fogged and disorientated with a heavy dose of sleepy fatigue.

And as if he were in his own bed, he mumbled a foolish, "Come back to bed."

Although the offending words were barely audible through sleepy, clumsy lips, Eddie's face contorted in confusion and shock, his eyes once again leaving the road to look to his passenger, whom happened to be patting beside him, perhaps feeling for someone who was inevitably absent.

That was before Waylon realised where he was, and Gluskin's face diverted once more towards the stretch of road.

Goodness, he almost felt embarrassed for him - the way Park's face twisted in confusion, before flushing with bright crimson embarrassment. Well, at least he was awake now.

"Ah. I'm- I'm sorry... Forgot that-" The blonde ran his bound hands over his sleepy face, nails momentarily scratching at the bridge of his nose before struggling to prop himself up.

As Waylon's eyes blinked into focus, he finally observed that not only were they in the same moving vehicle, but in another location entirely, cruising down a strip of unnaturally smooth road. Oh yeah, and that Eddie Gluskin was still completely and utterly shirtless. And that said shirt was still on his own body.

Eddie hummed in faux understanding. "I see. That's quite a shame actually, I was about to join you."

Blood rushed to Waylon's face as he flushed a deeper shade of suggestive pink, eyes suddenly blown wide at the unexpected remark.

_Can't say I saw that coming._

Eddie peered at the shell-shocked lawyer in his backseat and dead-panned.

"I was joking."

Park probably laughed a little to promptly, his stiffened state deflating like a latex balloon. "O-Oh! Hah... Yeah. Uh, perhaps brush up on your-" He swallowed thickly. "-Your delivery."

Another hum of the same origin rumbled from Eddie's throat, filling the car despite being such a little sound.

Way shifted, feeling somewhat more vulnerable than usual. Perhaps embarrassed was a better word for it.

Subconsciously, the lawyer's gaze landed chastely atop of Gluskin's bare upper half, curiosity conducting his slightly lewd action.

God, he was big in every sense of the word, with such a dense layer of muscle that made his pale skin seem paper thin. Small and tasteful crystal white stretch marks were faint along the end of the man's collar bone to the top of his biceps, a result of the swift gain in muscle mass, and Way couldn't help but wonder if the guy had a few on his back too under all those mapping scars.

Lisa had stretch marks too. Beautiful ones, from when her hips widened during puberty. They ran like icy streams of fresh water along her hip bones, tiger stripes of frozen and jagged icicles in the frosty season. He'd held them in his palms when they fucked. They had become a part of what made Lisa so beautiful through the eyes of her husband.

And now Eddie had them too. Not quite as obvious (although Lisa's weren't particularly dominant) and not in the same place, either. In fact, they were barely visible.

But it somewhat made Gluskin seem a little more human, and that in itself terrified Waylon.

With a thoughtful lick of his aching lips, Waylon nudged his body upwards a little so that he could sit up in his seat, propped against the door and holding his legs against his chest comfortably before resting his chin on his knees, tied arms cradling himself.

Eddie had been watching him through the mirror, and instantly diverted his gaze when the lawyer's eyes met his in the reflection.

"Uh, by the way," Way began, "Do you uh, want your shirt back?"

Eddie sighed a forced yet quiet laugh, bitter and sarcastic. "If I wanted it back I would have just taken it, dear - but seeing your bare body was beginning to nauseate me a little."

Park cocked a brow at the man's remark, coughing an offended laugh in response.

"Well, I can only apologize. I'm sure that if given the choice, I would have put a shirt on before being fucking kidnapped-"

"Goodness me," Eddie interrupted, hand grasping tightly to the gearstick as he shifted gears, turning off swiftly onto another more narrow stretch of road. Not rocky like the last one, but seemingly just as quiet. "You've got quite the mouth on you. I'm not sure how much I appreciate that."

Waylon caught his gaze in the mirror once again, this time fixing upon it with challenging intensity.

"I'm not sure how much I appreciate being held hostage."

Eddie broke eye contact with Waylon, redirecting his icy eyes to the road beyond him. Within his jaw, Way could see his teeth grinding together and pushing out his already predominant jaw bone, accompanying it with a:

"I'm not holding you as a hostage."

"You're still holding me against my will-"

_"Quiet!"_

White knuckles flush against the wheel, upper lip twitching in uncalled for aggression; Waylon could feel atmosphere tense and thicken in an instant, pulsing around him, itching to be fed like the beginnings of a fire.

He knew that pushing Eddie would be a fucking stupid idea, and maybe it was a little masochistic of him to want to continue to in the first place.

Waylon ran his tongue across his teeth and smirked, watching the guy through his mirror, watching his anger simmer and spill through his tense posture and curled lip. It was quite juvenile, really. Juvenile enough for Way to prod at Gluskin for it, tease him a little.

Yet, he remained silent, left in almost fascination (certainly an odd sense of awe) at Eddie's skyrocketing frustration. How could a man be so docile one moment, yet enraged the next?

As masochistic as he may be, Waylon certainly wasn't a fool. Thus, he pursed his smirking lips.

 

 

 

  
Thankfully the rest of the car journey hadn't been long, which Waylon thanked his lucky stars for. Words could not describe how desperately he needed to piss, to put it bluntly.

They had only made a quick stop once, so that Eddie could put on a shirt.

The driveway had been so incredibly discrete that Park hadn't even noticed that their journey had drawn to an end. A small path down a rather decrepit looking road with more potholes and fallen branches than he could count, and a rather abrupt stop.

It had even ran through the lawyer's mind that perhaps Eddie had simply gotten bored of him, and wanted to dump his sorry carcass in the middle on nowhere and wait for him to rot into the leaves and become a hearty meal for the worms.

His suspicion was only fed when Gluskin clambered out of the vehicle, opened the passenger door and deliver a solid whack to the back of Waylon's head - hard enough for the man to forget how to feel pain, and also the desperation in his bladder.

He flopped like a ragdoll, doubting his consciousness as black and twisting spots of ink dominated his vision, barely noticing as his body was almost effortlessly hoisted onto Gluskin's broad shoulder. Perhaps not effortlessly, but certainly professionally.

Waylon's arms flapped against Eddie's back like an oversized and deflated balloon and with about as much grace as a giant spider on an ice rink with every large step that the criminal took.

Eddie was humming softly to himself, his huge hand gripping (not uncomfortably) hard around Waylon's back as he forcefully escorted the man to their destination, before dropping him rather unsympathetically on an old set of crusty wooden steps.

Groaning upon impact, Waylon forced his body onto it's front, brain beginning to throb with pain as his senses decided to finally kick in again.

He looked upwards, neck craned and chin pointed as his eyes squinted into focus. Eddie was stood at the top of said stairs, back towards him, focused on shoving a rusted key into an equally decrepit door.

His attention diverted to the rest of the surrounding atmosphere: a thick coverage of woodland and uneven ground, the chirping and whistling of avian creatures proving to be more eerie than soothing. The house itself was small, probably quite quaint in it's time, but long past it. It was certainly old, the cobblestone drowned in mounds of twisting ivy, swallowing the dirty and no longer transparent windows.

It certainly belonged in a place like this, and to a man like Eddie.

A clunk and screech of hinges desperate for a little oil caught Waylon's attention, as he returned his gaze back to the looming figure.

Attempting to scramble to his feet, Waylon was quickly resituated on his behind by Eddie's booted foot. Not hard, all it took was a nudge before the lawyer was back with his belly in the air once more.

And of course, picked up and slung onto his captor's shoulder.

He was quite conscious enough to struggle against the man, but saw no use. After all, if he did get out of the man's grip for more than a second, it wasn't like he had anywhere to run even if he could. Couldn't fight back even if he had the balls too.

Within the house, it seemed a little less of a shambles than Waylon expected. As a matter of fact, it was quite neat and tidy, but the long days of no residence had proven hard for the small cottage, and it showed in it's appearance. It was glum and grey looking, dust particles floating in a melancholy dance. There wasn't much furniture, but what there was seemed to be of high quality. The entire interior as a whole was quite... _feminine_. The wallpaper clung to the walls limply, as if it didn't want to be there. The pattern was pleasant, painted humming birds amidst delicate flowers, subtle and tasteful. There were a few pictures mounted upon the walls, but the dust had layered itself on thick enough that Waylon couldn't quite make them out.

The stairs groaned tiredly as Eddie carelessly carried Waylon up them, disregarding any welcome or any sort of acknowledgment to the house what so ever - as if he had done this one thousand times prior.

Waylon didn't have a shadow of a doubt about it.

The upstairs, or what he managed to sneak a glance at from his angle, seemed just as oddly presentable. A few more pictures dominated their rather dainty surroundings as they descended down a sorrowful corridor, two doors to his left and only one to his right and a rather quaintly built in arch in the wall with a cobweb ridden plant pot beneath it in the shadows.

Waylon didn't know if the second flight of stairs were really spiraling, or if he'd perhaps just been upside down for a little to long, but what he certainly did know what that with every one step, the already gloomy lighting of the lower floors were beginning to thin out rather rapidly.

Eventually, after a few long seconds, Eddie stopped and pressed his hand to what Waylon assumed to be a door in his befuddled state.

It opened reluctantly, flooding much welcomed light down the (confirmed) spiraling staircase, hefty footprints in the thick dust trailing upwards.

A single step into the room was all it took before Waylon was swung over and thumped mercilessly onto the wooden floor below him, keeling and groaning as the throbbing pain from his brain hindered his vision momentarily.

When it returned, Gluskin didn't appear to be even remotely remorseful. Not that it came as a surprise, or anything.

"This will be where you stay. Do get comfortable," Eddie mocked half heartedly. "Because you're going to be here a while."

Way shuffled back, eyes narrowed in bitter hatred. " _Fuck_ you. Fucking psychopath. You're _sick_."

He wasn't exactly sure what had willed him to spit out at Gluskin, probably some secretively suicidal tendency that he would use as an excuse. A cover up, he wanted a reaction and that was the truth. It was immature of him, desperately immature but the floor below him was cold and dirty against his bound hands and chipped milky nails, and pitiful enough for him to want a little entertainment to brighten him up.

There was minimal hesitation before Gluskin kicked Way's lips against his canines like a juggernaut, and due to his restricted balance, topple back and thump his chin against the wood of the floor.

Eddie hadn't been at all livid, nor seemed even mildly inconvenienced. His face dead-panned, and after his kick had been delivered, strode some and peered at the victim.

Parks eyes rolled in their sockets, accompanied with gargled snorts and whimpers of pain - splutters of pooling blood in his airways. Eddie sighed, this time seeming wrongly done by.

"Oh, it would be an awful shame if I had already beaten one too many brain cells out of you." He said - again, merciless. "At least then I could have my way with you."

A sharp heel to the top of Waylon's head had made the lawyer bellow a muffled cry, head and nose slamming unforgivingly hard against the ground.

He was lost for breath, gargling and panting like a drowning horse in his own blood.

Way's knees creaked as he desperately stumbled to rest his lower half upon them, thumping forehead against the floor in a keel as he slackened his gaping jaw.

He really was bleeding.

Bubbles of blood huffed from his nose, thin and trickling as he gasped in pain. His mouth was flaring, front teeth beating like a dozen heart attacks in his gums, lost in a thick coating of crimson.

A shoe against the small of his back, just resting, progressively increasing in strength as it began to crush down.

The lawyer cried out, scrambling on his tied limbs for balance, eyes spotting with black and blinding silver stars.

"Pl-please! St..."

Beating pain cascaded down Waylon's spine, thumping through his limbs, brain. His ears rang like sirens in his conscience.

"Speak up, slut." No mercy, no sorrow nor empathy.

Park whimpered pathetically, fighting for the strength to scream his mind: stop! Fucking bastard, you'll kill me!

He swallowed his pride like the blood in his maw and shouted, "Ple-please!"

" _Louder_ , I want you to beg!"

Way spluttering lips mouthed a plea, but it proved to be abortive.

The heel upon his back dug down, smacking Waylon's quivering body against the cold wood, his back crying a sickening crack.

He whined a desperate shriek, nails clawing at the wood.

" _Beg for me, whore!"_

_Fuck. Fuck, wait a moment._

Waylon, as quick as his beaten frame would allow under the weight of Gluskin's foot, rolled onto his back, stomach vulnerable as he faced upward.

He locked gaze with Eddie, a shift in his aura, and through a hoarse voice challenged:

"Please," a blood stained grin that made Way's face throb in pain _. "I fu-fucking love it._ "

A stunned jolt twitched through Gluskin's head, difficult to go unnoticed. He stopped, frozen in motion.

Waylon didn't want to die, of course he didn't. He had values, morals - Eddie knew that, and was using it against him.

He just simply hadn't been smart enough to figure such things out. Foolish, really.

The criminal's face contorted into a perplexed expression, shocked eyes blown wide. He stepped back, head cocked and brows furrowed. That had certainly taken him aback.

Without even a hint of warning, Gluskin growled in hysteric rage - " _You little faggot! You repulse me_!" - turned his back to Waylon and burst through the door, slamming it behind him deafeningly before the audible click of a lock could be heard by the lawyer's thumping ears.

Park was honestly surprised that the door hadn't come off of it's old hinges.

It had taken him a moment of intimate contemplation to come to terms with what had just unfolded - the colossal shit show that starred himself as the main role.

But now he was alone, in his own company, mind feeling distant from his shuddering limbs, as if a part of him had died on impact of that last kick.

Alone, absent from even himself.

 

 

 


	10. Grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there, it's only me. The one, the only.
> 
> Wait, before I continue, let me just take a real long drink from my tall glass of Evil and Torment™
> 
> Glug
> 
> Glug
> 
> Glug
> 
> Glug
> 
> Mmm ain't that sweet. 
> 
> So anyway, as requested, we've got a real early update (you're most welcome).
> 
> Primarily because nothing happens and to be honest I wanna get to the good stuff out in the open sooner. 
> 
> I know, I know, I said it gets good at chapter 10 but you know me, I'm the dumbest loser on the block!!!!!!! And I didn't realise how much I had written until I was like shit I can't squash all that sweet nectar into one paragraph.
> 
> Whoops my bad ;)
> 
> You love me really.
> 
> But on a more serious note, for real thank you lot so much for all of your comments and kudos and shit. I know I literally thank you all individually everytime you comment but I never feel like its enough. I just want you to know how much it truly inspires me to write, and I've not been busy this weekend so I've just been writing and writing and writing for you guys and honestly it's so rewarding. *Salutes to Erick* :)
> 
> Sorry for being cheesy, but hopeful the dairy will help your bones get super strong. 
> 
> Try to enjoy this dry-as-bread chapter!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, just a quick one, would you guys prefer updates like this (you know, relatively short chapters around 3k words) about every week, OR long chapters (about 6k words) every two weeks?? Alternatively, I could just do it all at random, but I prefer to have an orderly system.
> 
>  
> 
> X

It hadn't been unreasonable for Waylon to assume that he had blacked out, although not distinctively remembering such things. Although he could however recall feeling as if his conscience had been consumed in an overwhelming blackness, before feeling light as a feather and utterly painless.

But that's not how he had awoken; bolts of pain surged through him like a pit of fire in his core, as if he were about to spontaneously combust from the inside out.

And it was darker, the steel barred window letting in far less light than before, until the colours had cooled into what resembled an old, dusty oil painting. It was probably around evening, but not late by Waylon's best guess.

The blood his left cheek lay in was very cold, and dried along the side of his face and between the hairs of his brow and eyelashes like a sticky tar.

He blinked slowly, becoming a little more aware of his surroundings steadily, shirt wet with blood and most likely sweat.

Grey. Everything was desperately grey and cold, apart from the wet red across the floor and under his limp body, looking out of place and confident against the melancholy - a red rose in the ruins.

The pain had began to subside as Waylon, shaking and steady, heaved himself upwards off the floor with his elbows, that shuddered under his mass.

Park's entire body crawled with a feeling of pins and needles - or something that resembled it's familiarity - as he propped himself into a painful kneeling position.

His brain fallen silent, no more ringing, no more fuzz, senses sharp from the trauma.

The blonde's half lidded eyes scanned the room. It wasn't as empty as he had previously remembered. Perhaps he had suffered a touch of short term memory loss due to the multitude of thumps and whacks he took.

There was a wooden bed, old and decrepit, with a beige cotton sheet thrown over it. He doubted there was a mattress beyond the folded, damp and musky blanket under the sheet. There was a pillow though, thin and floppy and dirty, but a pillow nonetheless.

The room itself was fairly big and poorly filled with absolutely no decor, and in a corner stood a tall oaken chest of drawers with four compartments that he set his sights on investigating.

Waylon ran his tongue over dirty teeth, hot blood rushing from his face as his tongue poked a tender, metallic slot between two molars. The bastard had kicked a tooth out, cracked a few others.

His eyes scanned for it on the ground, before he lifted an aching leg and pushed a solid little object away from his knee, before scooping it up in his hand. Yep, definitely a tooth.

Funny, he'd always imagined that it would hurt quite a bit more than it did. Maybe it did hurt like he had anticipated, but in comparison to the rest of his face it wasn't shit.

He dropped it, didn't care about it if it wasn't in his mouth. Oh well, he had plenty of others.

Park swayed as he finally clambered onto two uneasy feet, the blood in his head darting to his limbs and making him see patches of humming black, suddenly feeling quite woozy. But he rode out the rush, waited for it to pass, and continued.

Making his way the the drawers was a task and a half harder than it should have been, and although Waylon's body wasn't particularly up to scratch, the cogs in his mind still churned, curiosity being his main motive.

He gripped the wooden knobs of the tallest draw before he paused. His hands and feet were no longer tied.

Reveling momentarily in the freedom and loose limbs and rubbing soft palms against the tender skin, Park huffed a discontented sigh, before returning his slender fingers to the handles and tugging.

Inside of the great big drawer was a dull array of women's clothing, folding neatly with the collar facing upwards and everything else tidily tucked behind.

Way's face pinched at the sight, running a dirty and dry bloodied hand over the soft fabric without leaving a mark or crease.

Most of the clothing was hand sewn long dresses and night gowns, some with evident rip repairs and questionable stains all over them like battle wounds. They were pretty clothes (pretty in their own way), all looked fairly loose fitting and modesty.

Just this alone had exposed to Waylon exactly what types of girls Gluskin liked to keep for himself: tall girls, skinny legged and light and graceful with pinched waists and small, modest breasts. He liked a lighter colour on a gal, sleeves that reached the elbows. Light, floaty and mostly plain and quaint dresses stocked the drawer, but a also a few smaller blouses that were possibly intended to be worn with the given knee length skirts.

In his head, Waylon made links; the missing girls, dead women that Gluskin had been suspected of killing all fit the criteria of his obvious preferences, apart from the odd anomaly. The legal man within him smirked in a sort of guilty satisfaction.

Waylon was cold, the barred window had an obnoxious hole gaping through it, probably from some poor woman attempting to escape the likes of Eddie. The chilled air poured in, the lawyer's skin had already been covered in erect hairs when he had awoken and had began to shiver unpleasantly. The blood soaked shirt had become freezing cold, and served more purpose off than on, so he stripped the thing off of his body.

He picked out the least feminine item of clothing he could find - a delicate, almost see through ivory blouse - and slipped it onto his slender frame.

It fit unnervingly well, a little loose on the chest than in other places but still tight enough for his pointed nipples to poke at the cotton.

There were dark blotches littered about Way's skin as he looked a little closer to his arms, bruises that had been there for god knows how long. A day? Two days? A few hours?

And the gash down his chest had calmed, reddish tint looking a little more pink than it did previously. Along the top, the cut seeped with a clear substance that stuck grotesquely to the clean shirt when the wound had been split again, perhaps when he was dropped back onto the ground again (on multiple occasions), or dragged from the car, or kicked to shit.

Waylon touched his wrists once again, the skin red and a little blue where the tight friction of the cable ties had rubbed.

Contemplatively, the lawyer meandered over to the door, his eyes tracing rounds of it's frame and body. It looked unstable, weak. Woodworms or termites had chewed the planks that supported the frame over the course of the houses neglect, and it was evident in the little holes and trails in the woods.

Way ran his fingers over the old, frail wood. It felt soft as he pushed and index against it, so he picked at it with his nail, a chunk snapping off without much persuasion.

For obvious reasons, Way tried the door handle and jiggled it against the frame. It was locked, as expected. But escape from his current room would be very simple (thanks to the good fortune of time and neglect) so long as it could slip under Gluskin's radar.

All Waylon had to do was bust a plank and squeeze through the gap. Seemed simple enough in theory, again, so long as no one heard him.

Besides, it wasn't like he had much to loose at that very moment in time.

 

 

  
By the time Waylon had near soundlessly ripped off segments of the decrepit door until he deemed that his body could most likely fit through the small gap he had created, there was very little light left in the room.

The temperature had plummeted, and the lawyer shook like a leaf but couldn't allow it to discourage him in the way that it so desperately was.

What Waylon had also come to realise, was that it was eerily quiet. There had been absolutely no sign of activity below him since he'd woken up.

Did that mean that Eddie wasn't around?

Steadily, Waylon edged his way through the tight gap, sucking himself in as he did so although it barely made a difference to his actual size.

Outside of the crumbling door was cold, but not nearly as cold as the room he had been in.

Standing at the top of the stairs, Waylon mind fluttered in a cocktail of confusion, disbelief and a sense of bravery to accommodate his new found ambition.

He was almost certain that the house was empty. Almost certain - Eddie was a big guy and the floors were thin enough for the dim light from downstairs to peek through the gaps between the floorboards. Waylon was sure that if Eddie were about, he would certainly know about it. Not to mention, the guy hummed pretty much constantly.

With a quiet sigh of courage, Waylon allowed his feet to lead the way down the winding staircase, and swallow him in dim, flickering lights.

Waylon's hand was flush against the handrail, barely touching it as if it would break under his hold. Reaching the bottom of the first short set of stairs, he paused once again, feeling his heart thunder in his ribcage, frantic like a cricket in matchbox.

But there was still no sign of Gluskin.

"Okay..." Way whispered, so quietly he wasn't sure whether he had said it out loud or merely in his head.

His legs were moving again, unsure of where and why, but cautious in their doing.

The small descending corridor was illuminated with half melted candle sticks and tea lights along the left skirting board. It was odd and an obvious fire hazard but quite easy on the eye in comparison to the rest of the house.

Waylon approached a door to his right, slightly agar and clearly pitch black inside. So he turned around, crouched, and scooped up a tea light candle before heading back towards the door again.

He was tentative in pushing it open - anyone would be - and held the candle about a foot from his body and level to his chin, a heavy breath would be enough to blow it out.

The floor boards beneath his foot turned into freezing cold tiles as he stepped in, jolting at the unexpected chill to his feet and disrupting the little flame in his hand as if flickered in dismay.

The room, from what the candle revealed was a bathroom, and upon the sight of a toilet, he remembered just how much he needed to piss.

It probably wasn't the smartest idea, but what the hell, he needed to go.

So, he placed his candle atop of the toilet and lifted the lid.

Well, at least he had discovered that the house did indeed have running water, as he mindlessly flushed the toilet.

 _Shit_.

Waylon's heart plummeted to his heels, frozen in regret as the flush roared.

Well, if Eddie was about, he would certainly now know that Waylon was too.

But there was no response.

The lawyer must have been stood in the same spot for a good few minutes, before he snapped out of his fear stricken stance.

So he _was_ alone.

There was an odd sort of devious curiosity that flushed over Waylon anew, a feeling that he didn't at all anticipate. It was refreshing, a treat from the fear, but he couldn't help but feel suddenly quite feverish at the knowledge of his own company.

_Where's Eddie? When will he come back? Does he intend on ever coming back?_

Looking down at the sink, Way hesitantly turned a tap that screeched unceremoniously. The water from the pipes spat and gargled noisily, but for only a few seconds before the water that flooded out became still and clean. He placed his hand under the tap and vigorously rubbed his palms together, watching the spots dry blood rub off into the dirty sink.

Cupping his clean hands, he allowed the water to pool between his palms, before he splashed the liquid over his pulsating face.

It stung profusely, but in an odd way it was sort of good in a revitalizing respect.

There was a small mirror above his head, a little too high up to frame Waylon's neck and chin. Perfect height for Eddie, it seemed. In fact, the height of the mirror had been so abnormal that Way hadn't even really acknowledged it at first.

A spider crept along the frame, a big and hairy thing with nimble and spindly legs, but Waylon hadn't noticed. He was staring at his own reflection; a swollen cheek with a deep green and red bruise and bleeding under the skin, a result of a beating - and sore, red and puffy eyes and lips. The bridge of his nose was split and bone white until it faded into a spectrum of colourful bruises (mostly deep blacks and purples) as it stretched under both eyes, which were heavily shadowed with dark purple damage. Both of his nostrils were crusted with blood on their rims, as was most of the left side of his face and hair. The water had made it wet again, thus diluted red had began to drip down his wrecked face. He undoubtedly looked as if he had been crushed by a moving bus, then reversed on again for good measure.

After splashing water over his face a couple more times, Waylon bared his teeth. Even in the poor lighting, it was obvious just how pink his gums were, teeth stained red, and of course that ugly gap at the back of his mouth.

_Fuck Gluskin. Fuck him._

It infuriated Waylon, the way Eddie had just taken things from him with absolutely no regard for _his_ well being. He knew full well that he certainly shouldn't punch the mirror. It would be dreadfully childish, something only angsty teens in cheap dramas did. He wasn't a child.

He wasn't even sure that he could be aggressive enough to do so. It simply wasn't like him at all.

God, if Lisa could see him now... Waylon was sure that she would laugh inadvertently. Not call him pathetic, but be thinking it. She always did that, never spoke her mind. And at first he had thought it to be kindness, but perhaps it was beginning to border onto the bounds of dishonesty.

No, Lisa wasn't dishonest. Just withdrawn at times, _when she wasn't flashing her slutty legs at men in bars-_

Waylon's eyes blew wide, brow furrowed as he toppled a step away from the sink. He didn't think like that, could never think like that. Not about Lisa - his better half, the woman he married. That wasn't him.

He was tired, shocked, in pain. Lisa could forgive him for it, he was sure.

With the tea light in hand, Waylon exited the bathroom feeling just a little fresher, and set his sights on the furthest door, nearest to the second and last descending flight of stairs.

The door was completely shut, the door handle an oval shape and golden, far different than the two silver, spherical ones he had seen so far.

Something wriggled in his chest as his slender fingers turned the handle. Anxiety? Excitement? Whatever it was sent a surge of new found ambition through the lawyer's veins, containing his adrenaline with a steady breath.

Before pushing the door, Way tried the handle. It was open.

Inside was, to Waylon's surprise, actually quite well lit - candle lit, like the rest of the house that he had seen, but they seemed to be laid out in a more orderly fashion across the expanse of the room.

There was a double bed with damp looking beige sheets and a woolen blanket folded lengthways over the end of the bronze frame. Next to that bed was a sturdy looking bedside table, which was empty apart from a candle stick and an old traditional clock that looked to be long broken. The room had a dark wallpaper - Way couldn't be certain of the colour in such lighting, but he knew it wasn't particularly cheerful - with only one framed picture which situated itself atop of a large chest of drawers (much like the one in the room he had awoken in), next to a large closet.

The painting was ugly, well painted but _ugly_.

Waylon wasn't completely certain of what it was, but it looked to be a demonic creature of sorts, perhaps a representation of the devil as its rough skin was a black crimson, clouded in a hazy cover of a foggy substance. It sat on a heap of blood soaked straw in some old Shepard's barn, slender legs folded quite femininely. Between it's cradling arms it held a lamb, small, it's tail still long suggesting it to be a newborn. The creature's teeth were bared as it feasted starvingly into the lamb's crooked neck, spurting blood. The lamb itself looked to be bleating in horror and pain, hooves in motion, appearing to be kicking and thrashing against the beast.

Not an attractive picture to have in a bedroom, but then again, this was Eddie. Waylon wasn't surprised in the slightest, just a little confused at the nature of the painting.

The sound of a closing door from under him had snapped Park from his train of thought, followed by the hum of a masculine voice.

_Oh, fuck..._

Waylon found himself truly frozen in that moment, arms rigid at his sides, eyes blown huge in their sockets, sucking in his breath.

The thud of a foot against the stairs had been the just kick in the guts that Waylon needed to spring into immediate action.

_Shit! Fuck..._

His eyes darted about the room frantically. He could go under the bed, but Eddie would most certainly spot him.

Desperate eyes locked onto the closet.

Without a moment's hesitation, he sprinted for it, scrambling for the handle and shoving himself in against the railed clothing and tight space, and quietly pulled the door behind him.

It didn't fully close with his body jammed in, but there was no way that Eddie would see him in the shadows. God, he hoped.

By the time Way's mind had focused from the dazed flush of panic, Eddie had reached the top of the stairs, his words becoming a little more audible that previously.

The footsteps had seemed to double, light as the second pair tacked against the floor in a sweet echo.

And there was another voice, soft, youthful and feminine, that made Waylon blink in disbelief.

Eddie had company.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cut to me sat on a high chair, swinging my legs in evil bliss.
> 
> Chuckling evilly.
> 
> Having an evil ol' time. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> (completely random side note)
> 
> WOAH I just realised that devil has the word evil in and now I need a moment to reevaluate my life. I swear I'm the dumbest.


	11. Molasses and Tar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyo,
> 
> Next updates after this probably won't be late, just not as early as they usually are. I dunno yet, we'll have to see ;)
> 
> That's it I think, for now at least. Apart from the usual drill of me being crazy appreciative of all your comments and kudos, thank you guys so much <3 <3
> 
> Enjoy, my pals. 
> 
>  
> 
> X

  
Waylon's pulse thundered, quickening to a galloping pace as it reverberated through his body like a bolt of electricity.

He squished his frame against the clothing behind him, wriggling as far back as possible despite his heaving chest.

The agar closet door let in barely any light, but it was open about half an inch - small, yes, but potentially lethal all the more.

Eddie was close now, and so was his guest.

Their conversation was sickeningly flirtatious, but not in the usual fruitless and charming demeanor that Gluskin usually carried about himself. No, his tone was laced with seductively devious intentions.

And Waylon was slow to realise what a massive, horrible mistake he had made by remaining in Gluskin's own room. How could he be so _stupid_?

Of course, questions arose in Waylon's brain. A multitude of them, mostly: _who was this woman? Where did he find her? What did Eddie intend on doing to her?_

But timing had been cruel, forcing the young lawyer into a whole new world of shit as both Eddie and his guest stepped briskly into the room, suggestive conversation bouncing between them.

They seemed not to suspect anything unusual, an advantage of course - and Waylon caught a glimpse of the woman through the crack in the closet door as she perched herself at the foot of Gluskin's bed, legs folded, eyes narrowed seductively into alluring slits. Her lips were moving, mouthing words, but Waylon's fear thrummed through his ears far louder than her gentle and soft tone.

But through the midst of the terror, Way could at least notice just how pretty she was.

She was young - daren't say a little _too_ young for Eddie, as she barely looked twenty if that - with copper hair to her shoulders, bold and quite feisty in comparison to her quaint little face. With big, pretty brown eyes and long, elegant nose that guided Way's gaze to plush, glossy lips that carried more in the upper than the lower lip. She was slender and elegant, with long, tall legs like a winding ivy leading to a kitten heel that dangled off of her elevated foot.

Very pretty indeed - until she opened her mouth to speak.

"Why don't you come a little closer, all these candles aren't doing much to keep me warm, you know."

She had a voice like red velvet, sleek, soft and smooth. But there was a pang in Waylon's chest that sent a flush of adrenaline coursing like poison, and something deep within his core began to stir.

Her attitude was quite typically cocky, especially for her assumed age. It erased a great quantity of the beauty and elegance, and Waylon was sure in thinking that Eddie most likely felt quite alike.

"That was rather forward, dear."

The tone of Eddie's voice suggested the slightest hint of hesitation, disliking - but his foot steps approaching the woman were dauntlessly opposing.

Gluskin appeared into Waylon's field of vision, and he felt his stomach knotting in an indistinguishable and near over whelming feeling, as if whatever the fuck was happening had become so much realer in those few seconds. So much heavier and appalling.

And although the man placed two, big and assured hands upon her peachy thighs and let them glide a little higher, he almost seemed resentful in doing so, as if sobering a little to the thought of her.

She giggled, low, seemingly mocking. Eddie's split his face into a grin, forced but with piercing charisma.

The woman unfolded her legs, shameless in her actions, and bit her lower lip, watching Gluskin through batting lashes smothered in thick, black mascara rather garishly. There was a thin strip that had smudged down her left eye, and it made her look sloppy and sluttish - yet she preened, lifting one hand to push her hair off her shoulder, the other soft against the folded blanket she was sat upon.

Waylon felt a looming sickness churn within his gullet, desperate to look away, eyes betraying him as they followed Eddie's hands slide under the woman's white skirt, the fabric shucking up her slim thighs to reveal her hairless, milky skin.

She scooted back a little on the bed, crinkling the cover up as she reached out and grabbed ahold of Gluskin's shirt and began to tug, urging him closer. Way could no longer see her pretty face, but instead the view of her long legs, coiling elegantly around Gluskin's middle like a spider's limbs, wrapping it's meal in immobilizing web.

Eddie's hands snuck a little higher, and the girl hummed softly.

_Fucking bitch._

The soft fabric of the skirt shifted, the hand beneath moving fractionally until the girl twitched and sighed, before a little laugh escaped her lips.

"In a hurry?" She cooed, a teasing tone and light like rosy candyfloss.

Gluskin's eyes snapped up to meet her own. In that glare was the same fire, the same rage and what was previously unbeknownst lust that danced in the man's eyes to unsung cryptic chants, the same stare he was met with during their very first interrogation.

And just like that, Waylon craved those eyes on him, fucking itched for that predatory gaze like it was something he had missed for decades. Something that had flicked the fucking switch, and that something curled his lip and licked it, eyes eating up the prize before him.

"What's the matter, you like it slow, sweetheart?"

 _Fuck_ \- he sounded so lucid, so starved for it.

The woman's legs visibly tensed, Gluskin's intense stare seemed to have put her a little on edge, more than understandably.

Eddie's arms had hardened, the veins straining under his thick skin - he was squeezing, and clearly a little too hard.

Her whimper was soft and helpless, and this time not one of bliss.

"Uh, you're hurting me..."

Eddie made a noise in response, that could have easily been mistaken for an quiet, animalistic growl - but no, it was some kind of moan.

Waylon paused.

_Eddie gets off on hurting people._

With a sly grin, the lawyer caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

_Oh, I bet he fucking loved beating the shit out of-_

A feminine yelp had torn his train of thought, as he refocused on Gluskin far too gladly than he'd ever admit.

She'd began squirming, and Eddie's grip had tightened anew until she thrashed her legs, heels rocketing off her toes in opposing directions.

"You do love to make a scene don't you, my darling?"

Oh, now Eddie was feeling it. His voice dripped with a primal lust, thirsty yet all consuming.

The criminal straightened up from leaving over the now hysterical girl, skillfully slipping his hands around to grab the back sides of her thighs and shoving them back against her hip bones, all the while narrowly avoiding several kicks to the face.

As he grabbed her thighs, his large fingers made craters in the pillow soft skin, sure to leave obnoxious bruises on the surface. He yanked her towards him, so that between her forcefully prized legs was flush against his crotch.

Only then did Waylon see just how much the guy's cock was straining against his trousers, pushing against his belt, brushing oh so softly against the girl's pink panties. His clothing had tented so much that it had pushed the slacks away from his stomach, exposing a neat trail of short, black hair to his dick - _no underwear, huh?_

"Goodness me, do stop moving so much."

The girl thrashed harder, hollering like a banshee.

"Darling, please-"

Finally, the girl managed to snatch her leg back away from Eddie's vice hold, before propelling it forth to whack Eddie in the nose with her heel.

But, however, it was to no avail as Eddie was barely knocked back a foot, before remounting the screaming bitch, his left hand scrambling for his back pocket.

Before - _oh -_ Eddie unsheathed a small knife from under his belt, where another indistinguishable object creased the fabric there too.

Fueled with a fresh wave of inhuman and riotous rage, Gluskin plunged the blade into one of her creamy thighs.

She was silent in her paralysis for merely a second, before the same blade withdrew. Blood spewed in a fractious manner as the knife was pulled away, but once free of the blade the wound bled heavily, flooding down the back of her leg.

Sobbing out indistinctive cries and pleas for any sort of moral mercy the man had left, the girl had gone limp, aside from her upper half writhing in agony.

Gluskin however, seemed to be positively alight. He remained eye contact with her, clearly very pleased with how responsive she now was, merciless at his hands.

With the knife raised to his lips, Eddie swept his tongue along the flat of the blade, the crimson liquid coating his tongue and lips as he licked his maw.

"Vile slut. You even taste like the rest of them."

But his habitual insults didn't stop Gluskin from dragging the woman's wounded leg a little closer and grinding his clothed cock against it, smearing the blood into his own clothing with an open mouthed groan that shuddered Waylon to his core, his belly ignited with sparks of shameful arousal.

Park forced back a shameful hum of his own, and he hadn't even noticed that he was kneading a vigorous palm into the front of his trousers.

_God, look at you. Getting off to this? Fucked up, Way. Real fucked up._

He was quite sure that the girl was now unconscious - she hadn't moved or made a sound in the past minute - but Gluskin still stared into her eyes like a starved vulture to a filthy corpse.

"-your slutty cunt is going to be way too loose, but I bet your ass is still nice and tight for me, hm?"

Gluskin spoke as if he'd been following a continuous train of heinous thoughts, and just so happened to speak a part out loud, but fuck if it ever hit Waylon where he felt it most.

With his palm hard to his cock, Way's breath hindered in fault, mouthing an " _oh god"_ before shifting his foot back.

A loud clatter of metal clothing hangers filled the closet.

_Shit. Oh shit._

Gluskin had paused so promptly that Way almost didn't catch it, before slowly turning his head toward the closet.

_Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

Without even a hint of finesse, Gluskin dropped the leg across the bed and half the limp body followed, lower limbs sliding lifelessly into the wood floor and continuing to bleed out despite the girl's lack of consciousness.

Eddie blinked at the closet, and Way held his breath - held it as if he were about to drown or much, much worse.

The criminal's grip tightened on the knife as he straightened his back and stepped towards the closet.

Waylon was fucking done for.

For a moment, Eddie stood in contemplation, as if he were to ignore the questionable noise.

But no, the closet door was forced opened, dim light swallowing the space before Way saw black again, toppling to the floor as Eddie clubbed his head with his fist in immediate defense.

" _You!?"_

Oh, Eddie was livid. Absolutely teeming with rage.

And when Way's eyes had finally began to clear from the silver stars, he found himself peering down the hole of a handgun.

_He was quick to pull that, huh?_

"Perverted fucking slut, how did you get out? Come to watch, you dirty little _whore_?" Eddie bellowed, his voice reverberating through the room, hand steady and finger poised against the trigger.

But behind the gun was the same, lusting face - the beast was prowling, hunting, fucking desperate to eat.

And Waylon looked delicious.

The lawyer scrambled to rest on his behind, hands propping him up, before he met eyes with Gluskin.

_How about we have a little fun, eh?_

In that moment, in wasn't Waylon that smirked and licked it's bared teeth, it wasn't Waylon who pushed himself back onto his knees and pressed his forehead against the eye of the gun, feeling Gluskin jerk a little in surprise, and it wasn't Waylon who lifted himself just a fraction so that the gun was level to his mouth. It was the monster - the beast that lurked beneath his skin, and it had Waylon by the balls. He was merely the puppet in it's suicidal show.

Opening his mouth, Park dragged his tongue along the underside of the weapon, his eyes fluttering closed as he dragged out a filthy, shameless fucking whine.

He didn't know if he did it to mock Gluskin or - well, he couldn't say, but he certainly got the reaction he wanted: A sharp kick to the side of the head, and the sound of a gun skittering across a floor and bumping clumsily against a bedpost.

Way's brain had barely even began to stop fizzing before he was unglamorously hoisted up by Gluskin and thumped dangerously hard against a wall by the man's colossal body.

Functioning on pure instinct, Park wrapped his legs around Eddie's lower waist - like that whore before him - just to cling on, but in turn shoving Gluskin's groin against his own.

Their groans were so in sync that in any other situation in would have been humorous.

Way felt a hand clasping his hip, huge and hard - _hah_ \- whist another hovered at his throat, still armed with a dripping knife that pressed against Waylon's gullet with concerning professionalism.

Hot breath down his neck made the lawyer squirm, hands clawing at the back of Eddie's bloody shirt.

"You know what happens to faggots like you?" Eddie teased - and god, did he tease - in a demeaning mutter, his scarred and chapped lips brushing cruelly against the lawyer's exposed neck as he spoke.

Gluskin paused for only a second, not at all anticipating a response from the writhing lawyer. "They burn in hell. But you..."

The knife shoved a little harder against Way's neck and he gasped, being greeted with a sharp, cold pain that drew close to penetrating the skin.

"...You'd better get on your filthy knees and pray to fucking God that you don't get a special seat on Satan's cock."

Waylon's breath hitched as he chuckled in unfathomable lust, and responded with a shameless:

"Sounds comfy."

It seemed the young lawyer really knew how to make Gluskin's toes curl, as the huge man growled in pent up frustration, lowering the knife (but it still remaining in his grasp) before altogether dropping Waylon and grabbing his blouse, shoving him inconsiderately onto the bed belly up in one swift motion.

The bed creaked at the impact, and the girl entirely slipped off of it, before she had began to clamber again on the floor, attempting to awaken.

And without a second thought, Eddie relocated the gun (that was luckily not two feet away from his boot), raised the gun to eye level and shot the girl in the back of the head.

_Holy shit._

The blood rushed from Waylon's brain, heart thundering within its ribcage.

Eddie froze, eyes locked on the lawyer's, armed hand still raised.

 _Holy. Fucking. Shit_.

"Fuck me."

Gluskin flinched, as if unable to comprehend what had just come out of the lawyer's filthy mouth.

"What?"

Way whimpered in frustration, laying back and spreading his legs wide open, letting a hand fall over his clothed and straining dick.

"You heard. Fuck me, use me. Stab me for all I care." Way paused, just to retain himself, to stop himself from exploding in anticipation, but Gluskin cut in before he could continue.

"You..." He stepped closer, not cautious, but certainly surprised. "You fucking minx, I'm not a _slutty little faggot."_

 _God yes, call me that again_.

"Neither was I," Way murmured in a desperate tone, before he allowed his hands to grind against his own cock.

Gluskin watched in uncertainty, that's for sure, but also thick, heavy and predatory indulgence.

He wanted to. He really wanted to, but couldn't - perhaps he just needed a little encouragement...

"But do you know what made me such a dirty, _dirty_ little queer? I'm sure you can guess."

Waylon heaved his body up, pushing himself to kneel on his bed, barely a few feet from Eddie's very hard, very obvious cock.

With half lidded eyes, the lawyer blinked in faux modesty at the man before him, before boldly linking his fingers through the belt loops of Gluskin's ( _not so)_ slacks, and teasing him just a little closer.

Eddie followed on quickly, and took a willing step forward, before using his unarmed hand roughly yank at Park's blonde hair, forcing him to expose his neck to Gluskin.

 _Oh, that's very good_.

"Say it, bitch. Tell me exactly what you need."

Dominance flowed from Eddie's lips like molasses and tar, and Waylon so desperately needed to hear him moan again.

"You. I want you to fuck me like you hate me, because I know you do. I know how much you wanna rip me apart, pin me against the wall or screw it - you could've fucked me on the table in the interrogation room-"

Eddie sneered, his semi-lucid state deteriorating as he spat filthily onto Waylon's face.

Park curled his tongue up to lick it vilely.

"Shame. Tell me to open wide next time."

And oh, did he deserve the first slap in the face for that. The second one, maybe not so much.

An instant after, Eddie's grip returned to Way's hair, shoving his head back like he did before, but this time disposing of the gun, and placing the wet, discarded knife along his throat vertically and letting the harsh blade cut incredibly shallowly into his soft, tingling flesh.

It was a quick and relatively harmless cut, it's soul purpose being to make Way bleed gentle beads of garnet, put him in his place.

And when he did, Eddie finally - _finally_ \- burst.

Tossing the knife onto the bed beside Park, Eddie shoved him back with absolute brute force, before pinning his arms out (far harder than necessary) and mounting over the lawyer, cussing vulgar nothings.

Waylon turned his head, exposing the cut on his neck for Eddie like a little bitch, and Eddie dragged his tongue across the small, dripping slit deliciously, a reward for his obedience.

"Oh, _god_..."

Park's moan was disgusting, filthy, adulterous. He couldn't even pretend that this was an okay thing to do, wondered just how sane he was by doing it. But by the way Eddie's huge hand released one of his arms to grab a thigh in a pressing grip and stroke up and down with his thumb, he was clearly doing something right.

Gluskin nipped the small cut, groaned a pent up moan down his neck and Waylon twitched and whimpered under him, hips shoving upwards to bump against Eddie's crotch.

"You like that, you dirty bitch?"

"Fuck, _yes_."

With a prolonged hum of pleasure, Eddie shifted his weight on the bed and elevated Waylon's lower body, propping the lawyer's warm crotch into his lap, before leaning down again and looming entirely over the man.

As Gluskin drew a long, hot line against Way's neck with his tongue, he rolled his hips against Park's ass.

Eddie dipped his hips, arched his back to rub his erection between the lawyer's begging legs, the friction alone being enough to make his cock bounce.

" _Oh, fuck-_ " was barely a mousey whisper from Waylon, but Eddie heard it, growled into his neck and rut his hips against him again.

The previous sparks of arousal were in full blaze, burning Waylon's body in glorious lust. Eddie's cock was hard and heavy against him, grinding against his spread legs and pulsing manhood - just like he'd fucking begged for.

Way's dick strained and throbbed against his clothing, aching and desperate to be touched - but oh the anticipation was to die for.

Gluskin's tongue was slow, teasing, along with his gentle nipping that had gradually become hard and assertive bites. His other hand graced Waylon's arm with freedom, as he gripped his other thigh and spread the lawyer's legs further apart, and began to rock against him a little more rhythmically.

Park squirmed, mouth agar as he whimpered like a whore, hips nudging up to meet Gluskin's with every thrust. Curious hands rolled down the warm body atop of him, feeling Eddie's jagged muscle from under his shirt, how his muscles tensed and released like an over excited stallion on a track, boxed in before the gallop.

Fueled by a primal groan from the criminal and a hard buck of his hips against his ass, Waylon reached for Eddie's belt and blindly scrambled for the buckle, his fingers clumsy and frantic.

Eddie chucked sadistically at Way's simply difficulty, shoved him back and positioned himself onto his haunches, kneeling between Waylon's spread legs.

Gluskin spied Park with a half lidded stare and lips in a thirsty snarl as his fingers began to work with ease at his own belt.

Way chewed his lip at the little show, chest rising as heavily as it did fall.

_That's it, nice and slow._

Gluskin popped the buckle open, the teeth of his fly beginning to zip open in forceful cracks due to the strain of the criminal's dick. It made Waylon's gut fizz so hard, he felt physically sick from want.

But Eddie didn't unzip his fly, instead left it to teasingly crackle down of it own accord, stopping about a quarter of the way down - not far enough for Way's eyes to indulge. Instead, Eddie slid the black belt from its loops and folded it over in his hand.

Waylon didn't anticipate Gluskin leaning over his thudding body again, and pressing the leather garment flat to his neck, a hand each side and pushing down slowly.

In that moment, something about Eddie's demeanor had altered in a way that unsettled Waylon, and his gut grew heavy in cautious fear, bleeding into the arousal, and he suddenly felt mildly feverish, like the first time he had touched himself over Eddie.

Gluskin's face had hardened, his excitement radiating from him in overpowering waves when he began to choke the young lawyer with his belt.

Waylon began to writhe for an entirely new reason, body twisting as the leather pressed to his gullet.

Eddie still humped his hips against Way - harder and faster - almost a little manic in his juvenile like excitement.

It felt so good. _He_ felt so fucking good.

The two had slipped out if their slow and synchronised dry humping, Eddie's bottled anticipation slowly being released into quick and hard grinds of his hips against Waylon's, hot breath down his still trickling neck as the belt pressed harder.

Way's vision began to blotch with black and fleeting specks, his hands aimlessly clawing at Gluskin's back - panting for air, panting in exhilarating pleasure.

And as his sight began to fade out, Park prayed silently that he would wake up nude, Gluskin's cock nestled deep within his ass, fucking him until he couldn't walk. God, he wanted that, needed that - needed to shed his skin, clothes... his own and _his_.

But he was met with a sort of heavy blackness that had began to feel all too familiar, his fantasies fading into an unprompted state of unconsciousness - and as he did, he welcomed the cold, lush air back into his lungs.

Eddie had stopped chocking him as soon as he had passed out. Waylon hadn't wanted to die, but he certainly expected it at that point. Especially after the girl that now lay like a filthy dirty rag on Gluskin's floor, pink and fleshy blood where her dented head lay amidst the tangle of her limbs.

He had shown her no remorse, not even given her the courtesy of a second thought.

So why did he with Waylon?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHIT
> 
> GOES
> 
> DOWN
> 
>  
> 
> SHIT JUST KEEPS SPIRALLING DOWNWARDS FROM HERE ON OUT PALS
> 
> X


	12. Chains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired and my hand is aching so badly but I'm posting because I love you all. 
> 
> Oh yeah, I trapped my fingers in a car door. I would applaud myself but the bruising has gone all down my hand. Yay. 
> 
> So anyway, enjoy this chapter. Production might be on the slower side, like I said. You'll just have to be a wee bit patient for now until my hand is looking a bit happier. 
> 
> Comments and kudos and all that jazz is greatly appreciated, especially in these trying times. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> X

  
"Four local hospitals, three police stations and even a fucking fire department - Lisa, I'm not suggesting anything, I'm telling you that this is fucking shady."

Miles held his open laptop in an unstable grasp, coffee in his free hand and mobile phone wedged unreliably between his ear and shoulder as he conspired down the device. He made a steady beeline into the small, grubby kitchen of his apartment and set his laptop down on an equally grubby counter.

A tired sigh could be heard at the other end of the line.

"Says here that after three days of no sleep, one begins-"

"Lisa! Listen to me, for goodness sake - no, for _Waylon's_ sake. This isn't..."

Opening a new tab, Miles began to type furiously, fingers plonking against the keys in frantic desperation.

Lisa was quietly patient, and a little rustling was audible through the other end of the line along side some witty background chatter.

It infuriated Miles.

"Right... Okay, I'm sending an email to the security providers in the general area, try and see who it was and if we can get a license plate or something, assuming that he was taken by car - God, Waylon, where the fuck are you?"

Miles took a moment to pause, sigh in discontented distress and place his phone onto the counter, but not before putting it on speaker phone. He pushed a small hank of hair from his boney face before furrowing his brows.

"Lisa?"

No answer, but the sound of distant conversation and shuffling about suggested that she hadn't hung up, just left the Miles to talk to himself like a complete cockhead.

So, he hung up.

If Lisa wasn't bothered, then so be it. He could do it himself: Miles could find Waylon himself.

Miles wouldn't say that Lisa had been utterly and entirely useless, but that was a pretty accurate description. She had suggested calling the police to keep an eye on things, but Miles kindly told her to fuck _right_ off. The pigs don't do shit. Never do shit.

There were a few reasons why Miles was quite so bitter towards the police, despite being in a position of legal authority himself. Maybe it was because he dated an ex-military police officer once, who "retired" and became a deputy at a prison in... _God where was it again?_

Old drug habits had helped Miles forget about a lot of shit.

Ah - _hah_ \- yeah.

That was another reason that he thoroughly despised the police. Way back in 2006? 2007? - _wait, maybe later than that -_ they had decided to do a drugs bust in his old apartment and found quite an impressive amount of the stuff, robbed it from him. Thankfully, loop holes and sly talk had meant that Miles could crawl his way out if any trouble and claim medical reasoning for it. Well, at least now he could legally buy the stuff.

If it wasn't for... - _Shit, what was his name again?_ \- he probably would never had ended up in that pit. _Fuck you, whatever your name was._

Waylon had helped him through every moment of it, because of course he had. He was his lawyer, his confirmation, his best friend and on more occasions that one, his life line. He was the one who bought Miles his new apartment, helped pay for the jeep, bought him a dog - _Bell_ \- to help with the loneliness, and then lived with Miles for a month after she had got hit by a car and killed.

Waylon Park really had saved him on so many occasions, so to hell with himself if he didn't help the guy now.

But it would be a waiting game, long and slow and painful. Miles wasn't dumb, he knew how wrong this situation was, how much trouble Way would mostly likely be in.

In wasn't uncommon for lawyers and people of the sort to disappear spontaneously come the beginning of a controversial case, Waylon was just one of many. Miles had assumed that it was probably someone angry and mad as a hatter (perhaps a family member of a victim) who had taken him to hinder the trial, if not put a stop to it completely.

If that were the case, perhaps there was still a chance. They wouldn't kill Way, Miles could only hope. It would be far more than a world of shit for them if they did.

But he couldn't be sure, wished he could but couldn't.

Waylon's life was potentially in the balance, and Miles owned the man his own.

So damn him to hell if he wasn't going try and find him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The pungency of an ungodly stink had roused Waylon from his state of unconsciousness, and when his eyes had finally fluttered open, he doubted that he had even opened them at all.

The room was black, deathly cold.

And Waylon was naked, his legs rubbing together uncomfortably, feeling rather strangely waxy and grossly foreign.

His entire body tingled, his arms up above his pounding head, numb and utterly senseless. He tugged them toward his core but to no avail, just the mocking chime of clashing chains above him, hoisting his body to be elevated just slightly, straining the sockets that held his boney arms to his shoulders.

His toes were just touching the cold stone floor, bound together at the ankles that knocked together painfully.

_Stone floor. Where am I?_

An eerie chill rushed through his limbs, his body frozen in nauseating anticipation.

And the smell - _oh god the smell_ \- was absolutely unpalatable. Waylon figured that he'd been breathing it in so much that he could taste it against the screwed up material that was tied harshly between his teeth, sucking the moisture from his tongue that now felt cracked and leathery, his mouth dry.

There was the taste of blood that he recognized all too well, undoubtedly his own, dried up in his teeth and gums and sticky on his stinging neck, but it was still cold from being wet, so perhaps he hadn't been hanging there for that long at all unless the cut had been tampered with in the meantime, he considered absentmindedly.

The train of fearful ponder had been cut short by the sound of a door - a big door that creaked and groaned as it was prized open - and slow, heavy and tantalizing footsteps.

Waylon began to thrash against the chains, helpless whimpers erupting from his gagged jaw.

"Oh do pack it in, you'll dislocate a shoulder if you're not careful."

A voice so void of emotion, so monotonous yet crawling with deviance like maggots in a corpse, and the flick of a switch that echoed through the large room.

A light above Waylon blinked to life, swinging hauntingly from left to right, left to right, left to right. It was dim, provided no real source of guidance in the dark. Not for Waylon at least.

But Way could at least see the nearest few metres of the room. Grey and black, fairly vast looking in the low light. There were distant shades of reds, old though, so looked a little more like ill painted maroons.

Eddie stepped into the light, slow paced, eyes on the chained up man before him and lapping up the sight with obvious complacence.

Shit. _Oh, shit._

He was topless, his slacks loose around his v shaped waistline. The lighting wasn't very flattering for his scarred up face, and pronounced even the slightest flaws and ridges, all the way down his body in blends of purple and crystal white. He wore a belt, sort of. It came above his waist and looked crudely stitched together, the fabric thick and all varied, disorderly shades of black. On the belt were an assortment of loops, pockets, slots and small chains, from which hung a range of tools and weapons: butterfly knives, butchers knives, a machete, pliers and a handful of things in between, including a toothbrush with a craft knife blade melted into the head of it.

The items around the belt clattered as Eddie loomed closer, singing in deadly, cryptic union.

Gluskin beamed sinisterly, Waylon's darting eyes over his angled body.

"Come along, it's not as bad as it looks. I just want to talk to you, so if you would just stand still..." He cooed snidely.

Waylon sobbed against the gag, forcing his body to fall limp in the chain's hold.

"What a _good girl_." Eddie praised in a low mock, then hummed a growl. Way couldn't tell if it was in appreciation or deliberation, but honestly didn't know if he wanted to.

"Now," Eddie strode closer, leaving a little more than three feet between them.

Even being elevated slightly, Waylon still didn't reach Eddie's eye line. The guy was so damned huge.

He reached for his side and slid a clean blade from a small pocket on his right with delicate ease, and wiped the blade along his palm with the same odd finesse.

"Are you going to make this easy for me?"

Piercing blue eyes shot up like a bullet to meet Way's pools of silvery fear. The flames where there, _oh boy are they there_ , but they didn't rage. No, they were calm, slow but undoubtedly dangerous as the cooked quietly in his demeanor.

Truly frozen in an all consuming sense of horror, Waylon hung idly, shaky breaths jagged from his nostrils.

"Come on, darling - at least do me the courtesy of answering."

Now there was an element of frustration in Gluskin's tone, and in an instant Waylon nodded his head, an ascending wail muffled by the invasive cloth.

"Hm," Eddie rocked himself back to stand on his heels a little more, tapping the blade against his chin in deliberation, eyes roaming Waylon's quivering frame. "And how about if I take that out of your mouth, hm? Would you be nice and quiet for me?"

It took a moment, a glance to the left and unsure whimper, before Waylon nodded once more.

"Very well."

One small step forward and Eddie was already far to close to Waylon for comfort, resting the blade against the fabric, eyes remaining intensely audacious against Waylon's helpless ones.

The criminal's eyes scanned over Way's face with an intrusive glare that Waylon couldn't decipher, before they had locked contrasting eyes again and slid the flat side of the blade under the fabric, turned it and flicked his wrist away, breaking the fabric with a dusty snap.

Eddie stood back and Waylon let the thing topple to the ground. The sides of his mouth were pink and sore from the stretch of such harsh fabric, and stung when Waylon licked his tongue over his lips, hooking it at the corners of his mouth for a sense of relief.

Gluskin watched in dangerous awe, before speaking a "There we go. That's better."

Eddie slotted the knife back into its little assigned compartment, but before Way could take a breath of alleviation, Gluskin fished out the machete from his back pocket, and turned away from Way before disappearing slyly back into the surrounding darkness.

The lawyer's eyes dashed frantically, lips pursed, listening as Gluskin's footsteps came to an abrupt halt.

"Not fun, is it? Being in chains. I suppose you might get used to it after a few years, though." He spoke, his voice booming in the cold room, despite the false tenderness it possessed.

A metallic clunk could be heard from Gluskin's direction, before the ugly sound of metal grinding against stone. The screech was rhythmic, sharp and consecutive, but scraped at the innards of Waylon's ears after every stroke.

"Goodness, how rude of me. Sharpening my tools when I have company," Gluskin tutted to himself. "Quite unacceptable."

Eddie audibly placed the machete (Waylon presumed) down with slow, professional fingers, each sound sharp as he placed it on what Way assumed to be a ceramic table, before he made a start on another.

"Oh," Eddie chimed between the sound, "You have amazing bone structure, such soft skin. Well, after I had removed most of the hair, of course."

Way's heart skipped in his chest, wide eyes straining as he glanced down his body, skin pale and blotchy with bruises - and additionally completely bare apart from some pubic hairs, which Waylon was desperately thankful for.

"Do you like it, darling?"

Waylon could hear the smile in his tone, the chinking of the blade against stone driving him steadily insane as the horrid scraping only intensified.

"Well?"

Impatience. Impatience laced in terrible, devious intentions.

"Yes." Came Waylon's answer, forced and completely false in every sense of the word.

"Yes, what?"

_Shit, uh..._

"Yes, _sir_?"

The sharpening stopped in an instant, and Way could almost taste the tension in the air. Had he said the wrong thing?

Eddie hummed, ravenous and predatory. " _Oh_ \- darling, I only wanted a thank you."

Way bit his lip, staring in utter humiliation at his feet as the sharpening began again. Of course that's all he wanted.

_What the fuck were you thinking, you stupid-_

"So you'd better stop that."

Stern, dripping with malicious authority that made Waylon's skin begin to crawl beneath the surface.

To be frank, Park wasn't exactly sure what he was doing wrong, so he asked a rightful, yet incredibly cautious, "Doing what?" to aid his confusion.

Perhaps the exasperated tone wasn't the most intelligent decision he had ever made.

"Being a filthy whore."

The sharpening had intensified, turning into long, hard scrapes filled with bottled resentment that bled into a new found frustration that made Gluskin grit his teeth, his tone becoming steadily rapacious.

 _Not now not now not now_.

The stirring inside of the lawyer's self, the beast beginning to wake had become all too familiar a feeling to Waylon and as much as it fucking terrified him, his blood pooled with sharp flickers of thrill and daring adrenaline.

_No, please no._

Waylon remained deadly quiet, his thoughts racing, darting, scrambling for the dreadful horrors with shaking arms. The fear felt so much better than the thrill:

The thrill drove him mad, made him ache, made him need. It tricked Waylon into becoming someone else entirely - or maybe (he merely considered) it didn't, maybe it just peeled back the curtains and exposed Waylon's true, hideous face to Gluskin. Thrill made his body feel empty, sinful with a desire to be filled to the brim, to be ripped apart at his trembling joints. It made him want to bleed, want to hurt, want to fuck.

And the fear was his rope of sanity in that jungle of madness.

The knives had stopped after a few more seconds of torment, and Gluskin huffed to himself with seeming inconvenience.

"You know, it seems an awful shame to sharpen these for no reason, but you're just being so good. Let's see if we can get a peep out if you, eh?"

The beginnings of approaching footsteps had made Waylon choke in his own breath once again, writhing desperately in the chains that offered no mercy.

" _Please_ , no!" Waylon was frantic in hysterics, the fear dancing with a shameful excitement that simply wouldn't die, that enticed one and other as they toyed with the helpless lawyer.

Tutting slowly, Gluskin appeared into the light again, minus a couple of knives that he must have left unacquainted in the pitch darkness.

"A change of heart, I see? Well, you don't know what I'm going to do yet, my love. Someone's a little too hasty."

Park sucked in his breath as Eddie strode past him, dragging his rough fingers along the curve of Waylon's thigh as he did, so subtle and light that Way wasn't even sure that he meant to do it.

But fuck did it send tingles through the whole of the lawyer's body - tingles that would refuse to simply subside to Waylon's morals.

Eddie disappeared somewhere behind him and flicked yet another switch, and it took a brief moment before the chains had loosened and Way toppled onto the ground in a heap, loosing his footing as soon as the mesh loops dropped.

"Don't move, unless you want to loose both of your feet."

Once again, far from an empty threat, so Waylon decided stayed exactly put amongst the chains. His arms were numb, shoulders aching and undoubtedly pulled to shit judging by merely the intensity of the throbbing pain, but he still scooped his hands to cover his genitals in shameful modesty.

There was a slow, dry dragging sound, like cardboard along the ground before Gluskin lifted it and returned into the light with an almost weightless looking box in his arms.

He stood, about two foot from Waylon's craned head that stared up at him with widened, curious eyes.

"This is yours," Gluskin dropped the box to the side of Waylon and it landed with a muffled clatter.

Way didn't even flinch when it landed, instead ran his tongue along his bottom lip before nipping it nervously, eyes still locked on Gluskin's in a gentle plea.

The criminal watched down at Waylon with wolfish eyes that could burn holes into his fleshy skin if he peered at him for long enough, so thick with those hot, consuming flames.

Waylon swallowed desperately, panic beginning to wallow in his chest - the beast was threatening to wake up.

 _Please_...

Eddie tilted his head, hummed in deliberative desire. "How about we play a little game, hm?"

 

 

 

 


	13. Swells (100-1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I AM BACK I MISSED YOU SO MUCH OKAY BOY DO I HAVE A STORY FOR YOU!!
> 
> so basically, literally on the day I last updated, I STUPIDLY left my laptop on the floor and FUCKING STOOD ON IT (that's why I haven't answered the last set of comments yet, I will I promise I'm just eager to post). 
> 
> So I opened it, praying to every God I know that the screen wasn't cracked and WHAT DO YA KNOW, IT WAS CRACKED TO HIGH SHIT. But when I put it on charge, it started up so I was like okay it still works, but then the screen went all JDKSNXKXHSJSK and it didn't turn on. 
> 
> I wanted
> 
>  
> 
> to die
> 
>  
> 
> so bad. 
> 
>  
> 
> I had literally thousands of words of fanfic on that laptop and I genuinely thought I lost it all, so my first thought was to go onto my phone and answer the comments and warn y'all of my tragedy, but ao3 had logged me out (because I usually just use the laptop) and I forgot my fucking password. Yeet. 
> 
> So I was like, well I'm uhhhhhh FUCKED!!!
> 
> But today ladies and gentlebottoms, I tried to open my laptop and it WORKED AND HOLY HELL I YELLED IM SO EUPHORIC RN BITCH 
> 
> so who wants a new motherhumping chapter? 
> 
> PS, I've barely read through this one bc I'm gagging to get it up!!!! 
> 
> Do try to enjoy fellas.

  
_A... A game_?

Waylon was merely a speck amidst the tangle of chains around his frame, swallowed in the cold emptiness of the room as echoing footsteps circuited his bare heaped body. The box beside him was cruel in it's presence, regular in size but withholding uncomfortable possibilities beneath it's folded lids.

The steps grew ever further, until Waylon had twisted his head to see that Eddie had once more disappeared into the blackness, leaving Park stranded in the metal refinements that hung limply to his body. The footsteps stopped, but Waylon could almost hear the cogs churning in Gluskin's head.

"I suppose before any game, the contestant must know the rules. Now, I'll only tell you once so do listen."

Waylon didn't listen because he wanted to, he listened because the room had become a glass bowl, and Gluskin's voice was filling it like flooding water, drowning whatever was left of Waylon's dictation to block out the other man.

Eddie had not stopped walking - Way figured he was pacing - but didn't consider why. Perhaps he was riled up like an animal in a zoo, trapped behind the metal bars of his own body, the animal inside proving too large for his skin.

Waylon could relate all too well.

Gluskin's footsteps didn't hinder as he stole a short breath, and continued with a, "It's quite simple, really. You do everything I say - to my standards - and you will be fine."

Park shifted a little, a link of chains sliding off his thigh as he attempted the adjust himself to comfort, but found himself frozen in his place as Eddie's footsteps halted.

Waylon felt like prey under a crushing pressure, hunted like a small mouse in a panther's den. Waylon would merely be an appetizer for him - so in a feat of not bravery but... desire to be rid of the momentary silence, Waylon muttered an attentive: "And if I don't...?"

 _"Hah_!"

Waylon flinched at the biting sound that boomed like a shotgun's fire, his body stiff as a corpse with dotted hairs that stood on their ends.

"You'll soon see, should you choose to misbehave."

With that, Gluskin began to pace again - or walk or whatever the fuck he was up to - and Park swallowed thickly, awaiting his next move.

"Open the box."

The command was laced with sharp assertiveness, and Way was instantaneously responsive, his hands quivering as they reached for the lids. Nerves were sharp as knives, the cardboard feeling like sandpaper against his fingertips as he pried the box open.

Way paused for a moment upon opening it.

A chuckle from elsewhere in the room. "Do try not to look too pleased, dearest."

The sarcasm made Waylon's skin crawl, but the fear laced in confusion of the box's contents thrummed through him in bulky waves and killed the spite that coursed his body.

Park's eyes scanned the contents over and over indiscriminately, in hollow awe and befuddlement.

Within the box was - from what Waylon could make of it so far - a razor, a pair of rusted pliers, a toothbrush and maybe a pen - Way couldn't be sure by just the slender end. But covering the most part of the more solid objects was a set of neatly folded clothing, feminine looking but dull in colouring, with a small paper bag atop of them and tied with white string.

Eddie was still pacing - adrenaline, maybe? It wasn't evident as he spoke, lucid and focused.

"Pick up the bag and open it. Don't rip it, pull the string."

Waylon did just that, anxiously scooping up the small bag, slow in his movements and restricted by his uncertainty, but pulled the string gently and let it come undone in his hand. He didn't dare look in. Not yet.

"Empty it onto the floor. Make sure nothing rolls away."

The initial confusion died as he gently tipped the bag and shook it in front of him, the plastic tacking of a tube of lipstick and mascara being quite a surprise to him, along side a neatly rolled up bundle of crimson, lacy fabric.

Waylon's heart plummeted to his heels as his face flared.

_What the..._

"I know what your thinking-" Eddie's pacing stopped again, the voice still ominous and hidden in his dark coverage. "- and I'm sure this is a first for you. Believe me, I'm not dissimilar. So far I've been yet to do this with - well - with a man, but I see no harm in experimenting. Besides if I don't like it we could always just, you know, cut it off."

_Fucking excuse me?_

He couldn't. He would never get away with it. Waylon could simply thank his lucky stars that Eddie needed him in good nick, because not for a moment did Way think that the guy wouldn't follow that thought through.

"Put them on."

Park startled, his brain hadn't thought that far along yet. "Wh-what?"

"What's the matter, you want to be stark naked?"

Honestly, if Waylon had the choice between lacy red lingerie and his birthday suit, he knew what he would choose - but for the sake of his cock staying attached to his body, he shook his bowed head.

"Then put it on." Eddie's demand was cold, directing. The lawyer hated that tone, the challenge in his words.

Waylon hesitated, which was a mistake on his part, holding the fabric between his fingers idly.

"If I have to ask you one more time-"

"No-no! I'll... I'm doing it."

The lawyer was quicker this time, though not frantic. He gently unfolded the soft fabric in his hand, scanning it over with dreading eyes.

It was pretty, prettier when he folded it out, but Waylon didn't want to look at the fucking thing. It was a one piece, the panties attached the a small cupped bralette by slender straps of dark red elastic.

He hated it. It was demeaning even before he had to put the thing on.

Eddie was watching him. He didn't know where from, but he knew he was. The thought of the man's prying eyes made him keep his head lowered into his lap as he undid the straps carefully, separating the two pieces.

Before Waylon could step into the bottom half, Gluskin huffed as laughed, making the lawyer's face flare anew - but for the most part, Way chose not to acknowledge it, and shoved the chains off of his body.

Pushing himself to roll back onto his coccyx, one of Waylon's hands still cupped his genitals whilst the other held the underwear.

It was a bit of a maneuver - slipping his legs into the garment - but he did it, pulled the tiny stretch of fabric over his legs and tucked his cock into them. It didn't fit very well at all, and the lace was far too transparent for Waylon's liking. In fact, it barely felt like he was wearing anything at all apart from the soft lace tickling his inner thighs.

He worked on putting the top half on, assuming that it would be an easier feat and somewhat less humiliating. Wrong he was.

The bra was tight around his ribs and incredibly low cut, the cups particularly petite with only a little room, but heavily padded. Before Waylon clicked the little straps to the underwear, for a moment he paused.

_That can't be right..._

He tugged the strap down, but it seemed to be at least two centimeters too short. Park examined the straps, looking for a means to make them a little longer, but there didn't seem to be any.

Eddie sighed, amused. "Pull up your underwear, darling."

Waylon paused in outright stun.

_There's no way..._

The lawyer swallowed anew, heavy and painful like swallowing a lead marble, before he hooked his fingers into his underwear and hoisted them up until they met the straps.

_Fucking hell, there is no way-_

"There you go, that's better." Gluskin's voice had become a low, secretive utter, as if the praise was merely a thought said aloud, not for Waylon's prying ears. "Now stay on your knees, no slouching. Take out the mirror."

Park adjusted his posture, sitting on his haunches with his head held respectively. He'd stopped shaking, his pulse had slowed a little. The fear still pounded through his frame, but seemed to be better described as anticipation. Anticipation and humiliation.

He dragged the box a little closer, fighting the urge to keel up and hide his overly exposed body and flushed red skin, and rifled past the folded clothing and pieces of metal utensils and scooped out a small, plastic, handheld mirror.

In the light, Waylon caught a glimpse of his reflection, before immediately flipping the mirror around.

_Shit._

Park's face was bruised to within an inch of belief, purples banding over both of his eyes, bleeding into blacks and reds and greens. A sickly ochre and lime patch covered the best part of the left of his face, amidst the black tints on his eyes and nose and the dry blood. The right side, however, wasn't too dreadful. There was an open scrape along his chin, and purple bruising under a split brow but altogether not as bad.

Gluskin tutted in faux displeasure. "Don't be too hasty, you'll need that. I want you to put that makeup onto your face. Do go steady with the lipstick, we wouldn't want you looking like too much of a whore."

Yes, Waylon expected that.

Truth be told, Waylon didn't really know how to put makeup on - although not surprisingly. He'd seen Lisa do it a handful of times, but he never really paid any real attention. So he dreaded raising the mirror to his face again, appalled by his own reflection, and in the same moment he scooped up the closest tube - lipstick.

Popping the cap off, Waylon took an unsteady breath.

_Okay. Okay._

Park wasn't sure what Eddie's definition of whorish was but if the past had been anything to go off, he didn't like anything particular extravagant. The lipstick was a very pretty colour - it didn't really match the lingerie at all, the deep red being quite garish in comparison to the gentle pink of the lipstick.

He raised the mirror and the lipstick, and didn't take a moment to dwell on his actions as he pushed the waxy stick against his scabbed and swollen lips. It was more smooth than he thought, didn't pull at his skin like he assumed it would. It could have probably felt sort of therapeutic in any other situation.

Pursing his jaw, Waylon tucked his lips into his mouth and rubbed them together, like he would with Vaseline or lip balm. He then paused, lowering the mirror. He was collected - not calm, but slightly more at ease than before. The lipstick looked quite... cute, he supposed. It was certainly feminine and quite subtle, but amongst the utter humiliation was an odd sort of fondness to the stuff. Sure, he wouldn't wear it by choice, and it did look awfully foreign on his own face, but it wasn't ugly at all.

Another steady sigh had cooled Waylon's nerves a little more, as he placed down the lipstick and reached for the mascara.

Way peered blankly at it, before tugging the cap. It didn't come off immediately. He tried again but a little harder, before realising tardily that he needed to unscrew the lid, rather than aimlessly yank at it.

 _Pfft, idiot_.

Eddie remained quiet, and Waylon missed the tacking sound of the man's pacing feet. It felt all to silent without Gluskin's input - maybe he wasn't even there anymore. Waylon scanned the room upon the thought, turning to peek over his shoulder. It really was pitch black, how could _Eddie_ see?

_Hmm..._

_Had he really gone?_

On a perilous whim, Waylon cleared his throat cautiously, before speaking a quiet, "I... I don't know how to put this on..."

Of course he knew roughly, he could figure it out within a few seconds. Honestly, Waylon wasn't sure why he asked - sure, he needed to know if Eddie was still about, but equally there was something else. An odd craving for the other's attention to be entirely on him perhaps, or maybe just confirmation that his actions have consequences. There was a line, a line that Waylon didn't desire to cross. But that didn't mean he couldn't dance on it a little.

Eddie huffed a disbelieving laugh. "You haven't even tried."

_Okay, so he's still here._

Park thinned his lips in contemplation, before taking the stick from the tube and placing it onto the floor beside him. He held the mirror to his face, trying his damnedest once again to not look too hard at himself.

Slowly, Way bought the stick to his eye, poking himself directly in the pupil.

Instinctively, the lawyer allowed the mirror to slip from his hand as he yelped, the object landing with a clatter as he rubbed his eye profusely.

"You stupid slut!" Eddie's voice boomed, followed by the sound of furious footsteps.

As Eddie stepped into the light, Park began to scramble backward, hands stumbling over the chains below him, desperate whines emitting from his throat.

"Goodness me, sit still - I'm not going to hurt you yet."

 _Yet_.

Nevertheless, Way paused, hand held defensively up to his face, cowering from Gluskin and he sighed, before kicking some of the chains out of his path. Waylon twitched at the sound.

"Sit up straight and come here."

The blonde was hesitant to move at first, lowering his hand and allowing his eyes to scan Gluskin's body, who stood a good few feet away. He seemed bigger, stood with his legs apart, his upper half still bare, eyes locked onto Waylon in a deadly grip.

"I said come here." The criminal rumbled, his voice low and brimming with dictation and dominance, the threat in his tone present through slightly gritted teeth.

Frustration bled from the man, Waylon's seeming incompetence beginning to stir him into anger that bubbled beneath a collected demeanor.

And just like that, the fear that pulsed through Waylon's veins had began to curdle like spoilt milk, brewing into a coltish desire to push Eddie, to test him, see just how angry he could get before inevitably lashing out. So Waylon gathered himself up, and sat back on his heels once more, peeping at Eddie, eyes wide and coy.

Gluskin's face contorted into white fury, oozing in disgust. "Don't fucking test me."

 _Why_ exactly he wanted to test the man? Waylon didn't know, all he knew is that he did. He _really_ did. Nor did he know why the familiar, deadly, tinge of excitement pooled in his gut, suffocating the fear in a drastic shift in tendencies.

Something clawed at Waylon, triggered by the steaming rage that radiated off of Eddie in his biting stare. Park had been petrified, sick to death of the fear of not knowing what the man could do to him, but the curious adrenaline took his body as its captive, gutted the lawyer's brain of its logic.

"Why not?" The lawyer finally spoke, quiet, a halfhearted whisper, partially hoping that Gluskin didn't hear him to save him from the inevitable agony of punishment.

It hadn't taken a lot, a snarky comment being enough for Eddie to step forward a few steps and yank a fistful of dirty blonde hair, before dragging him back to where he was previously standing, the lawyer's bare knees dragging against the concrete unceremoniously.

Park cried out at the hands of the other's brutality, before being forced onto his aching knees before a particularly livid with rage Gluskin once more.

"Pass me that."

The criminal pointed at the tube of mascara with his spare hand, before shoving Waylon's head into the general direction of it with a crushing force that the lawyer so hoped to grow more accustomed to.

Park stumbled onto his palms again - in his brain such an action felt habitual, the straps of his lingerie tugging unforgivingly as he keeled, reaching for the tube and clutching it before hurriedly returning to his knees, offering it up to the man.

Eddie snatched it from him and using his knee, shoved Waylon's chin up to face him, Way's teeth clicking together in his mouth painfully as he did.

"Put your fucking hands behind your back and stand up."

Park did as he was commanded so hastily it had almost seemed eager, clambering to his feet with his fingers linked behind himself, brushing against the lace of his underwear, reminding him of his wallowing shame. He brashly took a step back from Eddie, who growled in irritation, yanking him forward again by his bare shoulder.

There was little space between them as Gluskin's hand once again gripped Park's hair to tilt his face up, the lawyer's eyes rolling back to avoid an unsettling contact of eyes.

"Do yourself a favor and stay still, whore." Eddie spat and raised the tube to his lips, yanking the unscrewed bottom away and thus holding the brush with his spare hand with the tube between his teeth. His fingers swallowed the small piece of plastic, looking too clumsy and thick to be wrapped around such a quaint thing.

"Don't blink unless I say you can." He had lowered his voice in the close proximity, but the venom still remained incredibly present.

 _Is there anything I_ can _do?_

It was admittedly difficult for Waylon to keep his eyes open whilst an intruding black brush wiped thickly along his upper eye lashes without his consent, but he had managed to accept it, even when Eddie went back to do the bottom lashes. Waylon didn't know that people actually did their bottom lashes, Lisa never did. Perhaps it was a preference that Eddie had.

The man had calmed a little, but not at all by anything considerable. He dropped the brush carelessly to the cold ground before scanning Waylon's newly made up face.

Eddie avoided eye contact at first, his face deadpanning and becoming unreadable to Waylon once again, before their eyes finally did lock.

Gluskin's pupils had filled with inky black, the hoop of piercing blue thinning out to a ring-like band, silvery and present and glittering like a young wedding ring on a chaste finger. Waylon scanned them, overwhelmed in uncertainty, adrenaline crawling under his skin and hairs raised on their ends across his arms.

 _Want_.

Waylon broke the gaze, eyes dashing about the span of Eddie's bare chest in a risky browse of admiration. The man's grip loosened on his hair, sliding his fingertips down to Waylon's nape before clutching again, yanking Waylon's head up and diverting the lawyer's eyes to meet his own again.

Park blinked, eyes rounded, silver on ice, body prickling with anticipation. He poked his tongue out to run along his waxy bottom lip, before nipping it between his teeth - a nervous tick, but a cruel betrayal.

Cold fingertips to his waist had made Way jump a little as they slid - they're touch so ghostly it tickled - to tuck under folded arms and rest on the small of Park's back with as much confidence as stumbling newborn foal.

Eddie was holding back - it was so desperately apparent in the way he dared to touch Waylon. He was almost absent in his interactions, and Park could see the inner conflicted on the man's face. Eddie was in a war with a hungry animal, absolutely desperate to get out, clawing at its confinements, chewing at the bars with blooded gums. He was holding back, tighter and tighter and tighter.

Waylon knew the feeling, Eddie just needed a little push.

Unlinking his fingers, Way allowed a hand to touch Gluskin's, before gripping it slowly - _god it was big_ \- and sliding it ever so carefully downward, until the calloused fingertips gently rested quietly just above Waylon's ass.

Eddie's brow twitched, the grip on Waylon's hair loosening and tightening in a thoughtful pulse. Conflict.

The hand on his behind slid lower, squeezed gently, as if testing the waters - to which Waylon hummed in approval of the other's actions, pushing his behind back into Gluskin's hand as a silent beg for more.

" _Slut_."

A coquettish smirk bloomed across the lawyer's face as he dragged his tongue across his dirty teeth, a blissful snicker drifting into a soft whine as Eddie's hand snuck lower again, clutched harder.

"Filthy fucking _slut_."

The hand in Way's hair released completely, joining the other one in groping Waylon's backside, shoving the lawyer's far smaller body against his own before pushing forward.

Waylon backed up under the sudden shift of events, following Eddie's footsteps as he kneaded the lawyer's cheeks apart without consideration for Waylon's preference, the lace fabric slipping between the crack and Waylon suddenly struggling to keep up.

Gluskin continued to back the lawyer up like a stalking beast until they reached the thick band of secretive shadow, where the backs of Waylon's thighs bumped against a freezing cold surface. But Eddie continued to press against Waylon, pushing his body against the cold surface under the man's sheer force.

"Open your legs."

"Wait-"

" _Now_." Eddie growled inconsiderately.

The ravenous command sent sparks of sinful excitement darting through his wrecked body, as shamefully he opened his legs a little, only to have them breached apart by Eddie crushing his mass between them.

Using his hands to force Way forward, Gluskin bucked his hips against Park's, the multiple knives around his belt clattering together in eerie union. Way's lips parted as he gasped a helpless yelp, Gluskin's hips hard and forceful against his open legs, hands pawing behind himself for stability.

It was dark away from the light, and Waylon couldn't see Gluskin's face, only a silhouette of his huge frame, Park hidden in the great shadow it bestowed. It was relieving as his face flared red and hot, the knowledge of Eddie being ignorant to such shame cooling him marginally.

Way, with too little consideration than he would admit, curiously allowed himself the freedom to let his hands wonder about Eddie's body as the man occupied himself with Waylon's own: with long and pale fingers, Park glided his soft hands across the expanse of Eddie's broad shoulders, a hard buck being his reward for his curiosity, before letting his fingers roll down against his torso.

"I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you so badly." Eddie's voice was a little raspy and drenched in desperate, undying lust. Waylon believed every word of it, felt the hard ridge of the man's cock between his legs, his quivering muscle twitching under his skin, his hands rough and greedy, fingers creeping their way between Waylon's cheeks in unstable crawls.

With a suffocating since of vulgarity in his gut, Waylon found himself yearning for Gluskin's tantalizingly words, and swallowed what little pride he had.

"Why don't you show me just how bad you want it?"

God, Waylon felt like a tease, moaning filthy talk with his hands smoothing down Eddie's solid stomach and over the thick belt, slipping only his fingertips into Gluskin's restrictive waistband. Gluskin groaned like a beast, pushing his cock against Waylon feverishly, a thick finger daringly sliding between Waylon's ass and rubbing a long, slow and bold line over his hole through the clinging lace underwear.

Waylon thrust forward, caught off guard as he whimpered at the unusually delicious sensation. Of course, his hoist forward didn't hinder Eddie in continuing as he was, his finger persistent and pushing against Waylon's unexposed hole as he growled a:

"You know damned well I would love to absolutely ruin you, fuck you senseless."

Under the weight of the criminal, Waylon writhed and panted, rubbing himself against Eddie like a bitch in heat - whether intentional or not, and all but squirming in bliss when Eddie rammed his hips against Waylon's.

Just to play a little coy, Park slipped his fingertips away from Gluskin's waistband and cupped the man's cock through his trousers, hot in his hand and twitching hungrily at the slight contact.

Fuck, he wanted it _so_ badly.

Eddie craned over, growled against Waylon's neck in evident bliss, who cocked his head back to feel the man's lips flush to his prickling skin, brushing the flesh dangerously. He pushed his fingertip against Park's hole through the thin fabric demandingly, before he grunted in open frustration.

"Open your mouth."

Waylon was quick to comply, parting his lips as two, thick fingers were shoved between the lawyer's supple lips. He began to work his mouth on them, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked on the digits, dragging his slick tongue against them.

Eddie didn't waste any time, and once his fingers had been deemed sufficiently coated, he prized them out of Waylon's mouth.

The lawyer squirmed in desperate anticipation, his own fingers working hastily on removing the belt from Gluskin's waist.

Using one hand Eddie gripped the globe of one cheek and prized Waylon apart a little more, his lathered hand crawling downward before pushing hard against Waylon's hole, soaking the red panties as Park jumped at the sudden contact once again.

Choking a moan of equally desire and shock, Waylon spread his legs further apart, arching his back into the criminal's gluttonous touch. He hadn't bothered to take the heavy belt off of Gluskin, he figured he was far to horny to be tardy - instead he let it dangle, knives and all, when he tugged down Gluskin's stubborn zipper.

But Eddie backed away, letting go of Waylon to stand up straight, cock straining against his slacks. He scanned his eyes over Waylon's writhing body with a stare of disgusting want, as if the scandalous situation had only now dawned on the criminal's mind.

Waylon pushed his body upward, still thumping with arousal. "What?"

"I'm not a fag."

Although there was no hint of regret in Eddie's tone, no hint of shame, no anger - the conflict and sin was almost heavier than the lust.

Waylon offered a disbelieving sigh. "If you fuck me from behind, you can't really tell." It was a half joke. Sort of. Eddie could take it however he wanted to.

Gluskin turned his back to Waylon and stood for a moment in private consideration. "I can't darling, it's not right."

In a way, Park felt a little sympathetic for the guy. There was a small part of him that could relate so closely to him, the conflict. He had a wife, for God's sake. But amongst the small amount of pity he withheld, Waylon also had a raging boner and an undying need to be fucked senseless.

Waylon shifted himself and stood upright, the jangling of a belt being forcibly buckled filling his ears.

"Besides," Gluskin continued, adjusting said belt. "We've not finished the game yet."

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS ily and I missed u :')


	14. What To Swallow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well at least I'm not months late this time!!
> 
> Sorry, I've not had any motivation to write this week, I'll work on that. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Love ya 
> 
>  
> 
> X

  
Nail biting had been a habit that Miles had never dropped. Both he and Waylon bit their nails, Waylon to a far lesser extent than Miles. Lisa had told the pair of them that biting your nails gave you horrendous worms, or at least supposedly it did, until Miles had learnt that she was spouting utter bullshit. Biting your nails doesn't give you worms, scratching your ass then not washing your filthy hands does. Honesty, Miles wasn't really sure what worms even where (obviously he had an amount of decent knowledge) but he was pretty sure that he did not have them.

So as he sat at his desk in his cold, glum bedroom, he chewed away at his nails with deliberate spite.

The security footage in the general area had been damn near useless, the guy who did it was slick, no idiot. There was every opportunity for the man to simply avoid the cameras should he know where they were situated.

But that was the thing: he would have to know where they were. Either that or guess.

Miles patted his foot impatiently against the ground, mind bogged with conspiracies. He took a moment to deliberative his next line if action; of course, getting the police involved was so far off the table that it wasn't even in the same _state_ as the fucking table. No way would he resort to that.

Lisa hadn't called, not even a text for a while. Waylon would be so pleased to know how much better her mother was. Oh well, at least it was good news for the guy when he did finally come back. The last time Lisa had called, she'd seemed pretty self absorbed, doing her own thing. She had said she'd be back in a few days, five at the most, but Upshur wasn't sure how much he really desired a comback, since he'd sort of camped out at their house for the last few days. In fact, this was the first time he had been home in... Well, he didn't really remember. There was a lot that slipped his mind nowadays.

Miles was going to get him back, he didn't doubt that. He just needed to figure out how.

Work had asked after Waylon, of course they had, and Miles used the same fucking shit crummy excuse that the captor was had used, except they weren't about to call out a search party look for him, they'd be quite glad to cut a needing man's wages. Bastards.

However, work could provide invaluable links. Links. Links were Miles' only real way of finding Waylon, as unsustainable as they may be. Links and all the shit he knew from being a failed lawyer and successful profiler. So, without hesitation, he opened a new tab on his laptop to make more notes. Notes were the key to connecting the links, links were the key to finding Waylon. _Right_.

Miles flexed his long fingers, before bringing them to his device to type. 

_**Untitled #14.** _

_The man on the phone (Waylon's fucking bastard captor) was male, deep voiced, accented - monotonous in his lying to avoid stuttering or going off track. He was good, knew what he was doing._

_But that simply wasn't enough._

_I tracked the call, took me back to Waylon's house. The cell phone wasn't there, neither was his home phone. The guy must have gone in, turned on a light unless he had one to hand, but there was nothing that could be seen._

Miles paused, ran a hand through his hair.

_Fingerprints would be neat, but what use do they have? Can't find a guy by his fingertips._

_Locals are a good bid, that's if you want a load of "can't be sure"'s and "I wish I knews"'s. I guess I'll talk to them tomorrow, if anyone's about._

_But I'm not looking for pity, I'm not the one who needs it._

With a sigh, Miles shook his head. This was going nowhere fast.

 _I promised you, Waylon. I'm not going back on that_.

 

* * *

 

 

  
The tension in the air hadn't subsided. In fact, Waylon was quite sure that it may have even thickened further as Eddie positioned him onto his knees in the light once more, his hands interlinked as they had been previously. Eddie stood in the light this time, prying eyes on Waylon, who hadn't quite recovered for their little interaction as astonishingly quickly as Eddie had.

Gluskin looked... fine. As if nothing had happened, but he seemed quite different to Waylon in a way that wasn't so clear to him. The man possessed a poker-face, untelling of any emotion and leaving the lawyer none the wiser in his questioning. He was collected and brooding like he had been previously, even with a pink tinted Waylon in lacy underwear and sporting a half hard-on on his knees not five foot from him.

He really did seem as though he suddenly no longer wanted to fuck him like he did not a few minutes ago. Park had doubts about how sincere that was, but nothing he could be certain of. Gluskin had just become... passive. As if he were a completely different person to moments ago.

Waylon however, folded his back towards his knees a little, just to take the edge off the friction of his cock, partially erect against the underwear. It rubbed against him in brutal cruelty, like a set of knuckles or the back of a hand dragging against his erection.

Eddie parted his feet a little in a dominant stance, with eyes set on the lawyer as they were before. He let his gaze track down the flushed body of his captive, Waylon's own fluttering elsewhere to restore a little dignity.

Gluskin hummed contemplatively. "Gotten yourself a little worked up, dearest?"

Sneering and eyes to the floor his face bloomed in crimson shame. He didn't answer immediately, and Eddie hummed again - short and mocking like the taunting beginnings of a demeaning laugh.

"Well, put your clothes on and we can discuss some household rules. A little modesty may point you in the right direction."

Waylon tilted his head upward to peer at the box and limply reached out to drag it towards him, hooking the cardboard with an unenthusiastic finger before sliding it over. The clothes had been significantly turned over due to Park's rifling, but the evident creases in where the material had been folded where still ridged against the soft fabric. Waylon pulled out the first garment - a loose blouse that stopped at the elbow, and ducked low into his chest but would perhaps be a little higher on someone with pert breasts to prop the garment up. It was beige and terribly chaste, the cuffs and hem whiter than the main body with a nice fade. He didn't at all look at Eddie as he slipped it on, the loose fabric falling over his bare body with grace.

The next was a skirt, ugly in comparison to the blouse. It was brown - a deep chocolate sort but not nearly as sweet - and looked long. The fabric was heavier than the blouse, but still not unbearable.  
Park inhaled sharply, holding his breath in deliberate resentment. A feminine top he could deal with, but a skirt deemed to scuff the line of his comfort. But then again, he was wearing lingerie, and any dignity he had had been quite thoroughly stripped from him.

So, he adjusted his weight and clambered onto the clumsy thing, all whilst remaining relatively stable on his knees. This skirt reach the floor when Waylon kneeled, tucking the blouse into the waistband and hoisting it up, so the hem was just flush with the floor.

Finally, Waylon gazed to Eddie with an expression that offered: _what next?_

"You're not finished yet." Gluskin chimed, cocking his brow expectantly.

Park's face tied in confusion, peering into the box again, eyes locking onto a small bundle of soft white in the corner. Inquisitively, the lawyer pulled out the bundle, observing how it's ends parted like a rabbit's ears. Stockings.

"Oh." Was barely a mumble under his breath as he pulled them apart, the slick cotton separating elegantly. They were long, probably would have covered the best part of Park's arms.

Honestly, out of all the pieces of rather oddly assembled clothing, the stockings seemed to be the least offending, which made slipping them over his cleanly shaven thighs somewhat less of a disgraceful doing (despite the vast amounts of times that Way flailed and stumbled whilst attempting to put them on when kneeling). The socks came higher than the hem of the skirt, gracing Waylon with much desired modesty. The clothes were oddly comfortable, but his skin felt a little wet with hairless legs - it wasn't all that unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

"Now," came Eddie's voice, loud and intrusive. "That's much better."

Better than lingerie, sure. At least he wasn't hard anymore, too. That was a plus.

"But still, we are quite far from finished - although I may just cut to the case, seeing as we had a bit of a hold up earlier." Eddie spoke matter-of-factly, a snide element of sarcasm in his tone that Waylon deemed rather unnecessary.

"There's one thing that I decided to keep out of your box. After all, it's not really for you... " Eddie span on his heel, stepping into the darkness once again. He hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "I suppose we can turn on the main lights now."

With that, an echoing tick of a switch filled Waylon's ears, before the blaring glare of overhead lights being forced into action. They were long, stretched in pairs along the expanse of the room and flashed on row after row - maybe four pairs in total.

Park blinked rapidly, brows knitted and eyes squinted to adjust to the sudden change, before his eyes could begin to focus. And _oh_ \- the room wasn't anywhere near what Waylon had expected.

It was blatant that the place had previously been a basement, but extended to look a little more like a very small grounded warehouse floor, with silvery concrete rough and uneven on the ground. Around the room was a long, ceramic table that attached to the inner walls and surrounded both Eddie and Waylon. But what truly disturbed Waylon was the chains, bloodied hooks, scattered knives and a colossal stained buzzsaw that was within his immediate eye view. To the left of him hung a rotted arm from rusted chains, that had clearly been there for years and that alone would explain the god awful stench - but Waylon feared that what lay under a the filthy white sheet in the corner in a mounted heap may be far, far worse.

Park's eyes blew wide, darting about the room in pure shock. There was more the harder he looked: teeth scattered, rotten and old fingers that there mostly ivory bone, roaches that darted about under the shadow of the ceramic table, chain links dominating the low ceiling. A set of steep stairs were situated in the far right corner, narrow and old looking, with a thick metal door at the top of them.

And Eddie. The room may not have been of exponential size but it somewhat swallowed the man, but in the same respect obeyed him - like how a pompous capitalist entrepreneur stood amidst the glory of his factory, his creation, his pride and joy.

Gluskin was fiddling about with his back to Waylon, a good amount of distance from him, before he turned, a loop of leather his hand, with a big metal box on it's front, with two little rods poking out from either side.

Waylon knew exactly what that was, and began to shuffle back a little in fear laden anticipation.

"Oh, come come. I won't use it on you, not unless I need to." Gluskin attempted to assure, letting the thing hang over his arm

"No. That's- That's a fucking dog collar. A fucking _electric_ -" Waylon stammered, before Eddie began again.

"Goodness, I wouldn't put it on a dog, darling. Not unless I wanted to fry it - and that sort of language is exactly why you need it."

God, Waylon dreaded that tone. That fucking psychotic _happy-go-lucky everything-is-just-peachy I'm-just-informing-you tone._ Park scrambled back, tripped and froze as Eddie drew close enough to loom over him, the lawyer thumping onto his behind.

There was a wet patch on his underwear, two actually. One where his cock was pressing up against, and the other where Eddie's hungry fingers had rubbed against his hole. Both had gone cold and unpleasant to have against his already chilled skin, but it was a minor inconvenience in comparison to the appending terror of death or worse.

"Will you sit still for me?" Eddie asked in an almost parenting tone, the sort of thing you would hear a stern father say to a misbehaving child.

Waylon feared what was to come should he choose to disobey, yet wanted to cry and the thought of obedience. Fear was the result of Waylon's stillness, letting Eddie reach down a harshly snatch at Way's jaw, but not before unlocking the two links of metal that held the thing together.

Gluskin forced it against the lawyer's neck, who thrashed but to no avail. The two metal rods pushed intrusively against both sides of Way's Adams apple as Eddie linked it back together. The leather was rough against the lawyer's skin and barely fit, the metal box heavy and drooping.

"Hold still whilst I lock it in place, dearest. Wouldn't want you slipping out if it."

So of course Waylon tossed and fought, arms on Eddie's in an attempt to pry his hands away. Obviously, that did not work, and the tell tale click of a lock proved his efforts to be nothing more than a failure.

"There," Eddie spoke, backing a few steps away to admire his work. "Perfect. A little tight if anything but not too bad."

Tight was absolutely nowhere near a strong enough description of just how suffocating the leather felt, the two rods piercing like thumbs pressed against his throat. Park wet his lips, glaring up at Gluskin in blinding hatred, panting from the aftermath of his struggle.

Eddie smirked with a consuming sense of pride, eye lids falling as he peered at his lawyer, a slight tilt to his head that screamed: _what are you gonna do about it?_

Waylon could have pleaded, given Eddie what he wanted, but he never would have earned seeing that look on Gluskin's face. A look of utter self righteousness, dominance and establishment - a challenge. It twisted something in Park's guts, a sickly stir of thrill and hatred.

The lawyer sneered, cocking his lip and scrunching his busted nose.

_You'll see._

Eddie scoffed, reaching behind himself, fingers finding two loops of cable tie before retracing his steps forward. "Stand up, turn around."

Waylon took a second to comply, eyes on Eddie's in unfiltered despise. Standing up in a skirt that just reached his knees was odd, and sort of felt like rising with wet trousers, if only the upper half were wet - it was heavier than he expected, knocked off his centre of balance a touch.

_Suppose I'll have to get used to that, huh._

As he turned, he lowered his head - partially to escape the probing feeling of the rods, and partially to break the contact with Eddie, who took another step closer.

"Hands behind your back." His voice was low, commanding, Way could feel his close proximity in that alone. He didn't react, his arms remaining still in their spot in front of him.

Eddie exhaled a short chuckle. " _Really_? You know, I have a little remote right here in my hand and I'm not sure how pleased you'll be if I have to resort to pressing any of the- "

Before Gluskin couldn't finish his sentence, Way spun promptly on his heel, raising a folded arm to elbow Eddie square in the chin with a loud clatter of teeth.

Gluskin stumbled back a few paces, clearly taken way off guard by Park's sudden surge of bravery.

Waylon stood, legs slightly parted, adrenaline racing through his thundering body.

 _Oh shit. Oh fuck_.

Park didn't know what in hell below had possessed him to lash out at Eddie, possibly mere instinct. But whatever it was would have be desperately illogical, suicidal even.

Eddie's glare was livid with raging flames as he straightened up and snatched for Way, who stumbled backwards out of his grasp narrowly.

"Fucking _bitch_!" Gluskin bellowed, following Waylon's footsteps as the lawyer turned and made a quick dash for the set of wooden stairs.

But Eddie was already too close, and grasped the back of Park's neck in a crushing hold, before swinging his tense body and throwing it against the ceramic table. Way thudded against it with force, smacking the underside of his chin against the edge, teeth piercing his tongue.

The lawyer whimpered at the instant wave of agony, his lower jaw flaring in hot pain, but he was left no time to cry out at the fresh taste of iron, as Eddie's hand found a place at the man's neck once again, lifting his limp frame and slamming his head against the table with an echoing _whack_ , before doing it again, and again.

Park's brain buzzed, little whistles bellowing in both ears as his head lolled against the table, moaning in the sheer agony of his brain slamming against his skull.

Gluskin stood behind Waylon, who'd submitted to the coursing pain and lay down against the table, arms flopping at his sides. Eddie shoved the cable ties between his teeth, gathering both wrists together and holding them behind Park's back.

As the fogged, flashing lights of pain began to clear, Waylon began to writhe under Eddie's constrain, pushing his body back and bending his elbows in an attempt to slip through the man's grip.

That was until he had scooted back far enough to feel Eddie's body against his own.

Both men froze, blinded with rage, blinded with pain. Eddie's grip around Waylon's wrists had tightened, both hands squeezing the tender flesh against the lawyer's back. Waylon was panting, chest hard against the cold table, the criminal's grip painful. Neither of them moved for a moment, both in utter silence aside from their erratic breathing on both parts.

Before a small, broken chuckle from Waylon. "I've got déjà vu, dunno about you."

That certainly kicked Gluskin back into gear, as he let Way loose with one hand, the other ripping the cable ties from his own mouth and coiling it harshly around Park's slender wrists before tugging it together with a sickly zip and letting the lawyer go altogether - and instead of hitting Waylon, instead of punching him, he grabbed his chin (to which Park winced at the pain) and pulled his head to face his own - a trail of Park's fresh blood against the metal - forcing his huge body against the other's as he pressed desperately close.

"You're a disgusting, filthy fucking _whore_. I'm going to make hell a fucking holiday for you." The criminal growled, face not inches from Waylon's.

Park's gaze bit back at Eddie's, running his wounded tongue over his bottom lip to scoop up a droplet of blood that threatened to fall.

"Open your mouth."

Waylon parted his wet lips, opening his jaw a fraction.

Gluskin would have smirked at the simply satisfaction of the lawyer's easy submission, but instead sneered and spat unceremoniously between his parted lips. Waylon flinched backwards unexpectedly, but Eddie was off him before he could give a questioning stare or wince in shock.

"Get up, you stupid slut. We're going inside."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for comparing capitalism to murder. I'll work on that too. 
> 
>  
> 
> X


	15. I Hope I Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry this is a little late. 
> 
> I may be slow to update as I only have a few back up chapters left due to my lack of motivation to write, so things may be a little slower until I speed up with my writing. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this uneventful chapter but it'll give you a bit of insight into Eddie's little brain. Stuffs a bit slow, but you'll probably enjoy the next chapter after this, not sure when that'll be but not long, maybe a week +3 days?? Dunno, I'm kinda writing chapter 18 and 19 at the same time, and I'm hoping to throw a couple major things in real soon. I'm excited, gotta say. 
> 
> But yeah, have this one for now. 
> 
> Love ya all.
> 
> X

Miles tossed and thrashed in his sleep, his dreams drearily causing a cold sweat to lavish his frame. His face twitched in distress as he watched a nightmare unfold behind his eyelids.

_Waylon was sat in a chair, a wooden chair, with his lower legs cut from the knee and wrapped effortlessly in filthy, dirt ridden bandages. He wasn't conscious from what Miles could tell, but he swayed against the ropes around his body and occasionally jerked in sequence like some kind of fit - and like a rabid dog, he was foaming at his mouth that gasped and pleaded. He was mouthing something, two syllables, a name maybe - but whatever it was, he was mouthing it again and again, like the word was a curse upon his tongue._

_The dream looped, a hacked up Waylon swaying from side to side, chanting the name for every second, apart from when his body jerked into yet another violent fit, and Waylon must had been screaming the word now, seemingly still unconscious, but Miles couldn't hear him - trapped behind the false reality of the dream, unable to save him._

_Miles was fighting the make out the word, desperately begging to help Waylon. He knew this was a dream, even as it happened, but Waylon's shaky fate was a reality._

_Upshur edged closer and closer. Waylon was quiet now._

_The blonde looked up at him with empty, torn up and fleshy sockets for eyes that bled streams down his face that weren't there before._

_Miles was screaming now. At first it was for Waylon, now it was of no coherency, and Way moved his gentle lips to talk, his voice wavering and hollow:_

_"You did this, and I will never forgive you for it."_

It had been years since Miles had cried, Waylon had always said that he was a bit emotionally challenged when it came down to it, but he broke that streak of tearless feeling, and let his guilty conscience swallow him whole.

Because when it came down to it, yes. It really was his fault.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_**Eddie's POV.** _

   
Eddie left Waylon flopping unintelligently against the huge metal table with his squirming arms behind his back, and stormed over to the cardboard box situated in the middle of the huge room. He lifted it easily, turning to glare at the lawyer once more.

Park was still doubled over the table, chest heaving.

Growling swiftly impatient, Eddie shoved the box under his arm and made his way back to his captive before grasping onto Way's bound wrists and hoisting him forcefully to his stumbling feet.

Gluskin marched to the stairs wordlessly, holding Waylon before him and pushing him along with no regards to his undoubted pain. The lawyer tripped about on his uneasy legs as they tackled the stairs, Eddie leaving no room for Waylon's comfort, relentlessly shoving him upwards by his own hand.

They reached the door and Way took asylum on the top stair, perching for a precious moment before Eddie unlocked the door and yanked him to his sorry feet again. Gluskin wasn't in the mood for the lawyer's foolish games and childish fumbling, and shoved him through the door to land inelegantly onto the wooden ground below him.

The heavy skirt had snuck up his thigh as he'd fallen, milky skin peeking out from under his white stockings and bunched up skirt.

Eddie paused, eyeing the patch of exposed skin.

Waylon looked oh so vulnerable. _Easy_. Hands behind his back, skirt teasing up his soft legs, squirming and writhing with his belly to the floor.

Such a coy little thing. _Such a tease._

But no, Gluskin wouldn't touch him. He simply couldn't - it would be desperately wrong, and Eddie wasn't like that. He wasn't _him_.

So instead he locked the huge door, grabbed his long, black trench coat that hung on a hook next to said door and threw it sound his own bare shoulders, making an awkward maneuver of the box between his arms and then reached for Waylon's wrists again. They were particularly slender and fine boned, elegant like his mother's were, like a woman's wrists should be. Eddie could close his palm with both wrists between it, and did so as he pulled the smaller man up.

Waylon stood upright with a noticeable amount of regained stability after a moment of swaying like a newborn foal, and began to take more sturdy steps as Eddie guided him forward with a leading hand.

Waylon's feet, Eddie thought, were quite lovely, small and narrow and dainty in stockings. As we're his ankles - skinny and quaint. Eddie wanted to grab them, wrap his hands around them and drag them closer. He wanted them either side of him, hooking around his waist-

 _No_. He didn't. Not Waylon, but a woman. It was a woman he desired. Waylon wasn't that, he can't want him, it simply wasn't possible. Eddie was not like _him_.

His lawyer peered curiously about his surroundings as Eddie guided him through his decrepit old living room. Goodness, he almost felt a little embarrassed at the state of the place. The dust had really layered up after the years of his absence. Nevertheless, Waylon still seemed curious, wondering eyes eating up old pictures on the walls, his derelict furniture that had began to look greyer than Eddie had previously remembered.

Gluskin did however feel quite fond of the place. He never used to, barely missed it when he was in prison. But as the old saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Eddie supposed it was true in some respects - there were many things that he had lost and could never dream of missing. And many things that he was yet to loose, but could feel and odd sort of fondness brewing within, his old house being one of them.

They wandered past the kitchen swiftly, Eddie's grip loosened slightly on Waylon's wrists to give him a little earned leeway. His gaze wondered to them, the small amount of flesh pushing up from either sides of the cable. Perhaps he had done it a little too tight, it was quite easy for Eddie to get simply caught up in all the excitement, he'd found.

The door to Gluskin's study (which wasn't at all a study, but he simply couldn't think of another appropriate name for it) was already opened, though Eddie couldn't recall how, after all it had been years since he'd used it.

Waylon seemed discombobulated for a moment, pausing abruptly in the criminal's grip.

 _What could possibly be the matter now_?

But before Eddie could chaperone him forth again, the lawyer turned his head to gaze at Eddie over his shoulder with wide, alert eyes, as if he were about to ask a rather pressing question.

He was quite evidently distressed, and Eddie offered a perplexed glance. "Go on."

Park ducked his head without a word and continued to walk in reluctance into the room, Eddie following suit and closing the tired door behind them.

The room was exactly how he remembered it to be, besides all the filth and dust of course. It was a small room, very homey and stayed warm even in the winter season - it was the only room in the house that did, apart from his own bedroom and even that would suffer in a harsh eastern blow. There had used to be a small desk, but Eddie had disposed of that many a year ago, and all that remained was an unused filing cabinet and and old office chair with a wooden armchair looking melancholic in the corner.

The window next to the chair was barred on the inside along with all the others in the house - and for justified reason, Eddie knew. It wasn't usual for Eddie to get to a point of trust with his victims, to when he could let them roam the expanse of the house. It had happened merely once or twice with a couple of unworthy whores who played him like the manipulative bitches they all were, and of course they had tried to escape, but their attempts were futile. Both times Eddie had caught them, beaten them both a little too hard and then had to start again with some new slut. None of his victims had ever really left a mark of remembrance on him apart from a few particularly pretty faces, but none of them were really worth remembering.

Waylon however was different. He was here for a different reason, a purpose that wasn't merely to keep him company (although none of the other whores could do even that). There were the more obvious differences, like Waylon's corrupt gender and vulgarity between his legs that set him aside from the others - but Eddie also needed Waylon, not as companionship but as his lawyer, his last bid to freedom, which left Eddie between a bit of a rock and a hard place.

He couldn't kill him, had to leave him in reasonable condition, but he also couldn't make Waylon do the things that he would usually get his captives to assist him with. Partially because it was simply immoral of him, revolting and dirty (Eddie would never be like _him_ ), and partially because he would be damned to say that Waylon didn't have some goddamned spirit in him.

He never submit like his other girls did, didn't back down. Way liked to toy with Eddie and Eddie despised being toyed with, but he couldn't punish Park however he deemed appropriate. Eddie couldn't simply gouge an eye out with a fish hook, because he needed both of those eyes intact for his own benefit.

Waylon Park really was a catch, not to mention when they will inevitably have to return to Way's house. Eddie, foolishly, hadn't even thought that far down the line because he didn't usually need to plan in advance, they were all the same. Except for _him_.

Park took a couple of sheepish steps into the small room, turning his back to face Eddie. His eyes were ginger as they met Eddie's, brimmed with nervous anticipation.

"Don't look so fearful, dear," Eddie began, placing the box next to the door with a clatter. "You don't even know why you're here yet."

Park's face contorted in doubt. "I think I'm beginning to get the gist of it."

There was that kick again. That kick that Eddie had never had to deal with from his captives before.

Gluskin sneered at his lawyer, who attempted to rub off some of the blood on his chin onto his shoulder, swallowing what was in his mouth.

"Stop that. You'll stain the shirt." Eddie warned quietly.

"It's your fault I'm bleeding in the first place."

"You ran from me."

"Yeah? Why do you think that it?" Way spat, continuing to rub at his shoulder until the blood had smudged over the clean fabric, leaving streaky marks across his chin.

_Disobedient little bitch. Ungrateful cow._

Eddie ran his tongue over his teeth in frustration, his fixed on Waylon's cocky, bloodstained sneer.

"Are you going to shut up and let me continue, or would you like me to force you to?" Gluskin warned lowly.

Waylon glared up at Eddie, then back down again in judgmental assessment, but kept his lips sealed.

Eddie hated that. He wanted to be in Waylon's head, worm his way into his thoughts and dominate them, know exactly what he was thinking.

"Lovely. This will be your area, since you kicked the door in upstairs like a damned animal. Should you pull a stunt like that again, you'll stay in the basement. Understood?" He explained, gaze never faltering from Waylon's, who glanced to his side in contemplation, before nodding only once.

"You'll need a space to work, so feel free to make this room your own. Additionally, I'll give you an hour and a half each day to use the bathroom accordingly: shower, shave, whatever you need to do-"

"What about blinking and breathing, when I can do that?" Waylon added sarcastically, peering up at Gluskin through a bowed head.

Eddie scoffed, "You won't need to if you're not careful." He warned in a scowl, before continuing. "I expect you to cook and clean, again I'll give you a few hours to do so everyday, and you'll be rewarded if you do it to my expectations, punished if you do not."

The lawyer kept his head down, listening resentfully as he nipped his lip gently, teeth a little bloody from his wounded tongue

Watching the man acting so incredibly coy sent dangerous pin pricks down Eddie's body, who tensed a little at the unwelcome sensation, but shoved it aside and pushed on, forced it down with a strong palm. It wasn't right.

"I have a few others expectations of you. I would like you to stay clean shaven, especially your face. You have a razor in your box, you'll use that. Obviously follow basic rules of hygiene, brush your teeth, trim your nails, that sort of stuff. And should you need the toilet outside of your allowed time, you'll just have to suck it up I suppose." Eddie added with a simple shrug and cocked his head in thought for a moment. "I think that's it. I'll leave you spare clothing in the bathroom for you every couple of days when I think you'll need them. Any questions?"

Park exhaled sharply in disbelief. "Uh, yeah. Where do I sleep? How do you expect me to work like this? What happens if I can't cook for shit? And oh yeah, the real biggie, why the fuck am I dressed like this?"

Eddie flinched, taken aback by Waylon's sudden bombardment of questions. "A little less of the attitude would be appreciated. And you can figure it out, I'll give you a desk and some bedding. You'll have to learn to cook, I have books. And as for your attire,"

Gluskin took two steps towards Way, who cowered back a step in return, craning his neck to look at Eddie with widened eyes.

"I'll only tell you this once, so listen."

 _You_ _shouldn't touch him, you don't need to. Don't be like him. You don't want him like that. Don't touch._

Eddie's fingers twitched at his side, but he kept them down, bunching them into a ball.

"You're my bitch. You're gonna do my dirty work and keep yourself looking pretty for me,"

_Don't touch. Don't touch, it's what he wants, not you. He wants it. Do you really want it? You don't. You don't._

The smaller man shuddered, emitting a quiet and shaky exhale through his nose, glistening eyes on Eddie's piercing ones.

"Know who you belong to." Gluskin hummed in an assertive and monotonous drone.

Park opened his lips, but sealed them after a moment of consideration, as if he were about to say something.

Eddie blinked down at Park, eyes roaming his face before he took a step back.

"You need to wash. Come with me."

 

  
They reached the bathroom in silence, Waylon seemingly reminiscent upon his previous days of freedom as he hung his head in subtle submission.

Eddie knew that Waylon had already navigated his way around the house of his own accord, and thus knew exactly where he was going.

As Eddie pushed him into the room with one hand (the other gripping onto the box), he reached to the side of him and prodded a switch. The light was painfully slow to flicker on, blinking and buzzing for a good few seconds before becoming mildly illuminant.

Gluskin hummed. "Well at least we know the generator still works. That's good news for you, means you can have a warm shower." He spoke and he placed the box onto another old wicker basket next to the sink, and reached for a butterfly knife from the belt under his coat.

Before Way was told to, he held his wrists out before Gluskin, exposing the cable for him to cut through.

Eddie sighed an amused laugh, sliding the blunt side of his blade against Waylon's wrists and snapping up with the sharp side.

"The collar is waterproof. Well, for the most part. I would try to keep the box as dry as possible if you don't want a nasty surprise."

With that Eddie concluded that Waylon could probably take the reins from here, and turned for the handle of the door. "Everything you need is in that box." he informed in a non-threating tone.

Gluskin the left the bathroom, granting Waylon some much needed privacy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you. 
> 
> Do you guys fancy a spotify playlist based on this fic or are you not too keen? 
> 
> Lemme know. 
> 
> X


	16. Wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late, but I warned you of that. 
> 
> No excuse really apart from writers block. 
> 
> Oh and also, I'm going to write longer chapters from 18 onward. I'm a bit bored of poorly written short chapters, but it does mean less frequent updates. Oh well, I'll try to be as frequent as possible.
> 
> Short chapter, but whatever have it anyway. I'm so fucking tired and it's late uuggghhh 
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
>  
> 
> X

  
Steamy droplets cascaded down Waylon's spine, pattering on his bruised and sore skin like a heavenly rain. Glorious didn't even begin to explore the depth of bliss the lawyer could gluttonously indulge in; he could feel himself unwinding under the gentle and therapeutic streams of warmth - all the stress, the pain, the anxiety wearing down into a pleasurable sense of uncaring.

The shower was a little grotty, not to mention the black and hairy spiders and about a million of their shed skins that he had to unwillingly pluck from the tub, but he couldn't see all of that mess with his eyes gently shut and head pointed upwards to the shower head. He almost felt gratitude towards Gluskin for allowing him this pleasure everyday for an entire hour, but reminded himself of his idiocy. Besides, the novelty would soon wear off, especially when push came to shove and he'd have to put a razor to his legs and arms and chest and face and most likely his junk.

 _Great_.

Waylon tried to usher thoughts of that origin away, instead allowing his brain to ponder upon the odd nature of his horrible experience so far.

The lawyer had seen so many different sides to Eddie, more than any of the files had ever documented. But perhaps they weren't distinctively sides to him per say, rather elements of his multitude of delusions. Gluskin had been lonely in prison, yet incredibly distant from most others. He strayed away from civility with anyone, prisoner and guards alike.

It had only taken a moment for the lawyer to figure it out, but he'd come to realize that it wasn't company that Eddie desired, it was control. His father had too been an impulsive control freak, to the excessive extent that he would humiliate and damage people sexually and break them down into submission. Eddie had done that with many different women, Way had seen it with his own eyes from a dampened cupboard.

But he had changed when it was Waylon under him. Firstly, he didn't go through with anything, despite his utter lack of resentment towards the idea. Of course, Eddie believed that two men should ever have such relations - installed into his impressionable brain by his nutcase of a father - and of course he had only experienced such things in a horrid, negative light.

Eddie became stumped when the other participant was not only willing, but asking for it. Became stuck when the pain didn't make them writhe in fear, but instead in pleasure. And of course, Eddie loved hurting people. Waylon had seen it in so many different cases, different people, especially those deriving from sexual abuse and resulting in mass killings - sometimes the pain and pleasure chambers within the brain would distort, merge together as one. It was so far from uncommon. Perhaps that was why Gluskin felt the need to experience both in order truly delve into that position. He liked his women helpless, barely responsive if not completely unconscious. He would have his way and then he would kill them, cut them up and leave no trace. There was no pride in what he did, which was maybe why he killed them after, and preferred them to not be entirely conscious as it happened - to save the guilt and humiliation.

Because Eddie had been though it himself, experienced the horror of it all first hand. Perhaps there was a shadow of regretful sorrow in the man for his heinous actions.

Yet when Waylon fell unconscious that first time, Eddie let him go. He didn't touch him, didn't try to cut him up or rape him. He let him go.

And the second time in the basement, Eddie seemed so sure of himself but just suddenly stopped. Waylon had wanted it, he had wanted it from what the lawyer could gather, but he stopped and acted like nothing had ever happened. Waylon logically considered that this was most likely because he was a guy, and Eddie was distraught and fighting inner conflict, but Park couldn't help but think it ran a little deeper than that.

Even though Waylon had been kidnapped, had been beaten and bloodied, and been treated like an insufferable piece of shit, Eddie had still given him so much in comparison to the other girls. He'd even said it himself, that they never lasted long, that he could never trust them, could never keep them.

But he gave Waylon a room, which he took advantage of and escaped from.He gave him clothes, a little office area, time to himself and warm showers, all in exchange for a few household chores and to work on his case again, a previous assignment.

The lawyer almost felt as though he should be grateful, but quickly shook that thought from his head. He'd still been beaten to shit, taken away from his wife, his home - the poor fish were probably long dead now too if Lisa was yet to return.

Miles was still out there, dedicated, ambitious and driven enough to be looking for him. Waylon did certainly miss Miles, a greater deal than he missed Lisa, which surprised him more so than he thought. Perhaps it was because deep away in his conscience, he couldn't be able to see Lisa anyway, seeing as she was away to Waylon's knowledge.

He did miss Lisa of course, but in a different way than he missed Miles. He missed Miles' company and good wits and humor, missed Lisa's body, her pretty face.

It was a dreadful thing to think, honestly. How he could only miss his wife for the warmth to wake up next to, for decent blowjobs in the morning before work and a pretty good fuck in the evening. Of course, Lisa was more than a good fuck to Waylon, after all he married the woman, but a good fuck was definitely an advantage and one that he missed. He was certain he missed her far more than that. _Certain_. It simply hadn't sunk in yet.

As Waylon ran his fingers through sticky, bloody hair, his mind traced back to Eddie. Lisa fit a lot of the categories Eddie required for his women, apart from her height, being on the shorter side. Waylon was tall, not nearly as colossal as Eddie but tall enough for Lisa to fit under his chin.

A sickening image flashed into his brain of Eddie and Lisa fucking, but he slaughtered it instantly, shaking his head in a frantic manner.

No, Eddie wasn't allowed to touch Lisa. Lisa was purity in its simplest form, and Eddie and absolute polar opposite of that - but Waylon was split straight through the middle, fighting a battle of lust and loyalty.

He wanted Lisa, he had always wanted her. The safety of her kiss, bliss in her smile, gentle hands on his skin and her lips on his neck.

But Eddie. His body hard and scarred, his twisted yet incredibly dynamic mind and desperate undying bloodlust. The way he gripped Waylon's thighs, pushed him against the table, opened his legs to rub dangerously against him. The way he got so riled up so easily, the degrading names and teasing touches, his fingers against his hole, pushing demandingly against the lacy underwear he had forced Waylon to wear. How hard and heavy his cock felt through his trousers, the way it pushed against the fabric and begged to be in Waylon's hand.

Park bet he was big, huge if his body was anything to go by.

Under the beating warmth of the shower, Way felt his cock jump weakly. He huffed an unsurprised laugh at himself.

 _Pervert_.

Well, he may as well finish what he'd accidentally started.

Waylon placed a hand on his lower belly, fingers flush against his skin that prickled with excitement. He experimented guiltily, imagined Gluskin's big hand holding his wrist, guiding his hand to his cock slowly, trailing down his waistline and letting the lawyer's fingers loop around the base of his own member, Eddie's big body pressed behind him. Park knew he wanted to feel Gluskin's dick hardening against the small of his back as he pressed those scarred lips to the shell of his ear, muttering near silent promises of pleasure, but he wouldn't ever admit it. Way would reach behind, drag gentle fingers along the underside of the man's erection, taunting his pulsing body, and in Waylon's mind Eddie began to move Waylon's wrist, sliding slowly up his cock, cupping the tip before rubbing back down again.

Way parted his lips, allowing a small moan pass them.

In his filthy mind it made Eddie groan deviously, let go of Waylon's wrist and grab his hips, shoving him against the dirty wall tiles. He imagined how it felt to have Gluskin's hands on his bare thighs, lifting him a little so he could press his cock against Waylon's hole and push...

But Park had never touched himself like that before, let alone penetration.

Well, surely he could try. There was no harm in trying.

Spitting messily on his index and middle fingers, Waylon hesitantly spread his legs, pushing the two fingers against himself and rubbing in timid circles, before loosening up fractionally.

 _Hm, okay. Not bad_.

He began to rub his fingers slowly, up and down like he would have with Lisa. Nothing particularly fantastic or ground breaking, but nothing that felt hideously grotesque.

He arched one finger away, leaving only his middle, and rubbed circles around the ring of muscle.

_Oh, that's pretty good._

Would probably feel better, Waylon decided, if it were someone else entirely, and in totally different circumstances.

Slowly, he began to push it in, until it was just up to his first knuckle. Way wriggled his finger, his other hand stroking the base of his cock teasingly. The initial sensation was a little odd, and Waylon suddenly felt a bit foolish begging Eddie to fuck him when he hadn't even experimented by himself.

He pushed his entire finger in at an agonizingly slow and timid pace and circled it curiously inside himself. Well, he couldn't really feel much of anything, it didn't desperately hurt, nor did it feel all that good either - so he concluded that he would include another finger to the equation.

The second digit was a little more difficult to fit in, and the lack of proper lube was proving to be an issue. It burned, Waylon could definitely feel that when he pushed them in knuckle deep.

Okay, so now it burned a bit, burned even more when he started to pull them out slowly and shove them back in with obvious inexperience.

Park kept a hand on his cock, demanding it to stand to attention as he experimented with himself. He hissed a little at the dry sting, but it was far from unbearable. Again, he pushed the other finger in knuckle deep and began to twist them in tiny, ineffective circles.

At this point, Waylon was undoubtedly beginning to get a little impatient. Was he doing it wrong? Was his how his wife felt when he pleasured her? Well, usually Waylon would touch her a bit harder, hook his fingers like-

" _Ah_!" Waylon whined, arching his back and twitching forward, brows furrowed with his head and collar against the tiles with a wet clatter.

_That was very good._

Park repeated what he did before, pushing a little faster, hooking and rubbed his digits deep within himself. His jaw dropped, panting a little under the steam as he matched the strokes inside of him to the steady rhythm of his cock in his hand.

Now, it seemed, he was beginning to understand, and naturally, Way's brain recalled Eddie - how both of Way's fingers probably couldn't amount to even one of Eddie's thick digits, let alone his - _oh god_.

Waylon pumped harder, working both of his hands on himself, scissoring and jerking, groaning into the bathroom wall with his legs apart, shower water like hungry hands all over his skin, in his hair, pooling into his eyelashes. He swallowed hard, gullet bobbing against the metal rods of his collar. He wanted Gluskin's hands in his hair, let the criminal rut into him like he was a cheap, shitty whore - spit on him, on his face and in his mouth like he did before. Disgusting. He wanted bruises on his hips, tooth marks and hickeys on his neck. He wanted to make Eddie cum - in his mouth, in his ass, on his body. He wanted to taste it, feel it, watch Gluskin's face twist in pleasure-

Waylon's train of thought was cut to a halt as he heard a knock on the door, and a voice from the other side.

"What's the matter in there? Are you crying?" Eddie spoke with his voice raised over the pattering of the running water, no sympathy in his tone, more so surprise and near absent concern.

 _Shit_ , was he being that loud?

Waylon's brain hindered on standby, and he would have whacked it with a wet palm to wake it up if his hands hadn't been quite so occupied elsewhere.

"Uh... N-No, I'm just..."

Way writhed, buckling over a little in discomfort and overwhelming arousal. He needed to cum. He really needed to.

 _Fuck it, it's not like he's about to come in_.

So, Park picked up the pace again, biting down hard onto his lip to avoid making any sound, shame like poison in his veins, but not nearly fatal enough to force him to stop.

"Just what?" Eddie echoed impatiently.

Oh, his voice, so full and assertive. Waylon was so, so close.

"W-Washing..." God, he certainly sounded like he was having one vigorous wash, chocking and guttering on his words as they fell from his mouth.

Eddie paused, thoughtful for a moment. "Washing and crying?"

Waylon had reached his limit, pumping his hand over his cock one last time before squeezing the base and thrust his hips into his tingling palm. He rocked his hips jaggedly as he came, ass clenching down into his fingers, knees trembling, threatening to buckle below him, eyes rolling in their sockets.

"God, _yes_!" He cried out thoughtlessly, tossing his head back and allowing ribbons of his cum to land where it pleased, words thick and jumbled.

Eddie growled in frustration. "Okay, there's no need to get so sensitive about it, I was simply showing a little concern,"

Park's body had just begun to thump in the afterglow, still riding his orgasm, his head starting to feel a feather light and airy from such a due release. He was absolutely a considerable amount more pent up than he had first thought. Grinning to himself at Gluskin's ignorance, Waylon responded with a breathy.

"Sorry, I - erm - appreciate the gesture."

Eddie laughed in disbelief. "Are you being sarcastic?"

Gathering himself up a little more, Way finally shut off the shower water, lowering his voice to speak to Eddie through the solid door. "Wasn't my intention."

"Hm, I see."

Waylon could hear the disapproving scowl in his voice, but chose to ignore it and search for a towel of sorts. What did he even want anyway?

"I'll be going out in a moment to buy food, so I need you out of there. Brush your teeth." Eddie was still talking a little too loudly, considering he was only a door away and the water had newly been shut off.

Waylon sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a damned child, I've already done it. Just give me two seconds to-"

The lawyer's eyes scanned the room. No towel. Well, apart from an old hand towel. He sighed to himself in defeat and reached for it impatiently, examining it closely for spiders and other creepy crawlies. None to be seen, he was safe.

Expertly, Park wrapped the small towel around his narrow waist, folding the flap in on itself so that it didn't come loose as he moved.

Pushing his wet hair back and out of his face, Park scooped up his clothing and toothbrush and shoved them into the cardboard box, before he hoisted the box up and held it under his arm.

"Okay, can you unlock the door now?" Way asked, a cocky tone of boredom slipping into his words.

"It wasn't locked." Eddie spoke, taking a couple of audible steps away from the door.

Waylon grabbed the handle as he spoke, "You left me with the door unlocked?"

Eddie chuckled, "Don't be daft I've been here the whole time."

As Waylon opened the door, he looked up at Gluskin who stood a couple of feet from the doorway, looking all too pleased with himself.

The lawyer's face bloomed in red.

_Hah, oops._

"O-Oh..."

Gluskin furrowed his brow at Waylon, eyes tracing up and down his dripping form. "I was expecting you to put some clothes on, at least your underwear."

It was Waylon's turn to cock his brow, looking up at Eddie, face still tinged in pink. "You were hurrying me along."

"You think I can't wait for the sake of your modesty?"

Way scoffed, "I dunno, can you?"

Well, that certainly came out a little differently from his intentions. Of course, Waylon didn't mean it like that, but judging by the disgusted look upon Eddie's face, that's was how he had chosen to take it.

"Clearly more so than you. Now put the box down and hold your hands out." Gluskin commanded, reaching for another cable tie.

Way glanced at Eddie in confusion. "I'll need my hands to get dressed."

"I'm not going to keep you bound up in the study, darling. You'll be given your hands then." Eddie stated as aloofly, Waylon dropped the box with a clatter.

"Charitable Mr. Gluskin." Park spat, low tone laced in sarcasm.

Eddie dead-panned, reaching into his coat pocket for a moment with his spare hand.

The collar around Waylon's neck snapped in sharp electricity, firing a harsh shock against his neck.The lawyer yelped, jerking in fleeting pain as his hands flew to the collar. The hairs on his neck bristled.

_That fucking hurt._

"See what happens when you step out of line, dear? Believe me, that thing can cause you a great deal more pain than it just did, so if I were you, I wouldn't let it happen again. Understood?" Eddie's voice was very clear-cut, apprehensible to Waylon as if he were talking down to a child.

Nevertheless, Waylon nodded - only once, and with great reluctance - and held his empty hands out for Eddie to tie. At the end of the day, Park knew that he could never win against Eddie. The odds simply stacked up too high, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't give Eddie a run for his money.

Because after all, Waylon liked to make him work for it, and Gluskin _loved_ a challenge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also happy late Thanksgiving to those who celebrate.
> 
> X


	17. Wood And Steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late again.
> 
> No excuse, I was just being lazy. Please scold me. 
> 
> Anyway this one is boring but the next chapter will make up for it. 
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
>  
> 
> X

It had only been the first of many grotesque dreams to rouse Miles from his sleep. Sure, his sleep had never been quite perfect, and his dreams had always admittedly been on the odd side but the profiler couldn't help but pondered unblinkingly upon his nightmares as he sat at Waylon's kitchen table, his forth mug of coffee in his hands.

He'd even been tempted to mix it with something a little stronger, but his will to say sober for his best friend's sake had overruled such urges.

But again, his conscience dwelled on the likelihood of his dreams meaning anything more than confirmation of his paranoia, but it didn't hinder him in wondering what Waylon had been uttering from under his breath to a guttering bellow in the dream.

Two syllables. It was almost like he could hear it, but just couldn't listen. As is he and Waylon were underwater, listening to each other's gargled screams to no avail.

Miles took another drink of his coffee, finishing the remains of the cup.

Lisa had called three times in the past half hour. Miles figured that she was likely to be coming home soon. It was a long drive, however, additional minutes added to gas stops and potentially food breaks.

Upshur scanned his surroundings. It wasn't tidy. He'd been living in there for the past few days, originally soaking up whatever nuggets of guidance he could to track Waylon. But that seemed behind him now, and his efforts had been futile. Miles was now a resident of the house because it was a part of Waylon, and he longed for his company again.

Yes, Miles was too reliant on Waylon. He loved him. No, not like that, but as family. As a brother, as a best friend. And he was out there, hurt and alone, and there was jack shit that Miles could do about it.

He wasn't about to cry again, he couldn't even if he didn't mind it. It felt as if his eyes were still red and sore from the last time, but he knew that was simply down to lack of sufficient sleep.

There was a lingering thought in his mind of selfishness, which Miles knew was preposterous but couldn't help but dwell on it. Perhaps it was self centred of him to want Waylon back so that he himself didn't feel so void of the man, but that was only an element of it. Maybe Miles could get a night's sleep if he knew that Way was at least safe, absent maybe, but safe.

But it was just another one of the things that Miles couldn't determine.

He glanced spitefully at his phone that buzzed on the table next to him. It was Lisa.

Sighing, Miles answered the call but left the phone flat against the table on speaker. He didn't have the energy to hold her whining voice to his ear as if he wanted it to be there.

"Yeah, what?"

"What the hell do you mean, " _yeah what"?_ I've been calling you for twenty minutes, Miles! Where are you?" She screeched in a tone that she would never have used if Waylon had been there.

"At Way's." Came his response, void of emotion.

She sighed heavily, the phone crackling the action in an ugly whisper. "Well is he there?"

"You know that he's not. What did you want?"

"I was just letting you know that I was coming home, and I have company. Does the house look presentable?"

Miles glanced once more about the likes of the house. It was in an utter shit state.

"Uh, yeah, it's fine," He lied. "Wait, you have company?"

Another sigh. God, Miles was getting bored of that. "Yes, my mother's friend's son. I was giving him a lift halfway but at this rate he won't be back until tomorrow, so I figured he could crash at mine for a night or so."

"Or so?"

"Yes, Miles. God, stop being so airheaded will you? I'll be back in a few hours."

"Okay." He spoke before hanging up on her.

But he wasn't okay, so very far from it.

 

 

 

Waylon had been ushered to his odd little office area by Gluskin's guiding hand, once again cut free and given his small box of belongings, which he took without any sort of thanks.

Before Eddie had left, he'd kicked a fat book under the gap in the door (really kicked it. The gap was barely large enough to fit the thing through but it squeezed in with a few unfortunate rips and battle wounds to the front cover).

Perhaps Gluskin had intended on delivering it with a little more finesse, but such things didn't occur, and Waylon couldn't help but grin to himself.

A soft, small and very genuine grin - pleasantly humored.

It felt good just to smile. Not to sneer nor smirk (although seemed to do rather a lot of that), but a little smile, fed by the irritated grunt of Eddie bashing it through when there seemed to be a far more reasonable means of delivery.

But when it was through, Waylon examined it from afar. The first initial bang of Gluskin's boot against the book had startled Way midway through dressing, and he thought that the man might be trying to bust down the entire door frame before he saw the spine of the book under his door.

Park crouched, skirt riding up his legs and bare back that he hadn't yet been able to cover.

He peered at the crumpled up front page with a perplexed expression, straining his eyes to make out the broken letters.

Oh, so it was a cook book.

His eyes trailed to the doorway that it had just slid through, peering at the shadow from under the door. Gluskin was stood there, a good few feet away.

Way furrowed his brow. "Uh, what do you want me to do with it?"

Eddie sighed heavily at the other side of the door. "Choose something you think you could make then hand the book back so I can buy the ingredients." He stated matter-of-factly.

Waylon frowned, scooped up the book and sat himself down on the floor by the door, and held the heavy thing in his hands.

The cover hasn't pretty, didn't give any signs of it even being a cooking book. It was white, with traditional and fancy looking black writing scrawled over the top. It was a hand made cover, torn up now but it was clear that this wasn't the original cover. Park ran his fingers over the writing, feeling where the pen had dented the paper and bled through to the back. If this was Gluskin's handwriting, then it was quite lovely. All letters the same size apart from the capitals, and tilted a little to the right like italics.

Way turned the cover and the writing was gone, replaced with old and glossy pages and printed ink. He skimmed through a few pages, all seeming way out of his skill zone. That was until he landed on a simple, vegetable soup that seemed to be easy enough.

He read it over one more time before nodding his head in confirmation and sliding the book back under the door, but open on the required page so that it went under with a little more grace.

On the other side, Eddie picked up the book and hummed in thought. "Yes, I suppose that's alright."

Waylon scoffed. "Glad I'm scraping average."

"Well, for now I'd say you were barely scraping even that. But if you're sure, we can do that."

Park was far from charmed by Eddie's not so praising tone, and tutted to himself under his breath before he stopped to think for a second.

"Wait, can you grab some meat too? It-it would probably taste good in the soup." He cursed himself for stumbling over his words, fiddling with the hem of his skirt nervously as he asked.

Truthfully, Waylon felt rather rude for asking such a question, as if it were preposterous to ask Eddie for more when he had already given him the choice of the meal.

"Yes, but not chicken. Unless you intend on poisoning me."

Way scoffed for the second time. "You shouldn't put ideas in my head."

On the basis of not receiving an answer, nor a shock to his neck, the lawyer assumed that Eddie had already gone with no trace of a goodbye. His shadow no longer crept under the door when Waylon looked, just to check.

So he listened for the front door, keeping his ears alert for the indication of Gluskin's absence - and when it came it was a faint sound, and it once again dawned on Waylon that he was alone.

He ran a hand through his hair that was still wet and now freezing cold. The dribbles of water down his neck and back made his hair stand to attention as he clutched his bare arms and shuddered promptly.

The blouse wouldn't keep him warm (but he slipped it on nonetheless) and he was quite sure that there wasn't anything left in the box for him to wrap around his frame.

The room wasn't cold, but his wet hair begged to differ, and without thought he lifted the towel he had previously had coiled around his frame. It was small and futile for his body, but it wrapped around the top his head twice, keeping the unwelcome drips off.

Waylon had seen Lisa do this nearly every time she got out of the shower until she turned nineteen when she bleached her hair with a preposterous pink ombre that fried the best part of her locks. Two weeks and two boxes of dye remover later, her hair had become a disheveled nest of crisped ends and patchy colouring. It was so utterly shocking that she cut her hair to her shoulders, just to try and restore the stuff on top. And that was when she stopped using towels on her hair, to stop the wet hair from becoming damaged or something along those lines.

It was a fond memory in their relationship; she learned from her mistakes, just as Waylon did when he got white frosted tips at a collage party and Miles gave him shit for it for the next half year until they had grown out and Way chopped them gladly off. All experience he supposed.

But now his hair was getting a tiny bit too long for his liking. He'd been due a haircut for a good while before the likes of Eddie, and now his sand blonde hair tickled over the tips of his ear, the front of his hair beginning to lay a little flatter on his head as the additional length weighed it down a fraction.

Park began to wonder as he sat down on an office chair, whether Eddie could cut hair, if he cut his own or if he went to a barber. Now that was an odd thought. Eddie would sit in the chair and still be taller than the barber. Not literally, of course, Eddie was just fucking huge.

Lisa would cut Waylon's hair on occasion. Not proper cuts, but trims. She wasn't too bad at it too, always offered Miles a haircut but Miles would convince her that his hair doesn't grow, and honestly Waylon began to believe it too.

He pondered upon the thought of the two: whether Lisa was home, if Miles was looking for him, or even slightly worried. What would Lisa - his wife, his darling - think about him if she were to see him now? She would think considerably less of him, that was for sure.

It was an odd conclusion to draw to, but Waylon knew that it wouldn't be the same for them again even if the change was extremely minor, and that in itself didn't stir him as much as he thought it would. No, it was the thought, the knowledge of _himself_ \- or better yet, whatever lurked within him - that frightened him. He could eventually make it home, complete Gluskin's case and forget about the man without regards to the end result - but that would never eliminate the great, looming feeling of adultery that wallowed in his guts. He had still been disloyal to his wife, yet felt as if it were inevitable despite their compassionate relationship. As long as he had a wife, Eddie would be an adulterous figure to him, if it be merely thoughts or actions.

Lisa had no way of finding out about them, it's not even like they had anything going on. Waylon was a captive to Eddie, " _his bitch_ " were words from the man's own tongue.

So whatever disgrace he was subjected to, whether voluntarily or not, technically it wasn't his wrong doing.

 _Right_?

 

 

Eddie had arrived back to the decrepit house after a longer while that Waylon had hoped. The lawyer had remained contemplatively still in his office chair, basking in his own body heat with his knees tucked up to his chin and humming in boredom on occasion.

At first it was just a quiet hum of whatever tune had popped into his head, something chipper and sweet - but he had lost track of it as he delved deeper into his own thoughts, and returned to reality after he had realised that the tune that he had been humming had steadily morphed into that sickly tone that Eddie hummed softly often. Waylon then stopped humming after that, and gripped his inner teeth with his cheek.

Eddie didn't immediately see to Waylon, which he supposed wasn't an issue because he would do eventually, and when he did, he wasn't as guarding as he usually was.

In fact he was oddly... jovial. Perhaps getting a little time away from Waylon had made him feel quite refreshed, which he couldn't help but feel a pang of insult to.

But as he let Waylon out, he didn't consider tying his limbs in blinds like he had before. Instead he escorted him rather hurriedly to the kitchen without a doubt much as a greeting.

Waylon didn't speak, just allowed himself to be guided by Gluskin's hand.

There was a door to the kitchen, wooden and sturdy, sturdier than the others at least and the planks that held the door together were steel, likely as a precaution of Eddie's so that no women could escape during her cut period of time she had to prepare a meal. The single window in the corner was boarded in iron too, bars that clung to the expanse of its frame.

The kitchen itself was quite nice, big and rather homey. There was about everything that Way figured he would need, including a variety of knives and other dangerous utensils of the sort.

Eddie stood widely in the doorway, preening a little in pride and he nudged the lawyer through the doorway.

"Well, what are your thoughts?" He chimed gladly.

Waylon looked about. The colouring was a little dull, he would admit that, but the rest of it wasn't so bad. It was certainly a kitchen.

"It's certainly a kitchen." Park echoed his thoughts, before taking a few steps closer to where his book lay open on the correct page, placed beside his vegetables and fresh slab of red meat that lay on a chopping board by a block of kitchen knives. "It beats being chained up or locked in a small room."

Eddie hummed in agreement, a blissful air to his demeanor. "Well yes, I suppose this can be your treat if you're good. I know how much women love to spend time in the kitchen."

Way knitted his brow in an unappreciative manner.

_I'm sorry, women? Wasn't being a man half of the issue here?_

The lawyer shook it off hastily. Eddie was delusional. So delusional that he relied solely on such delusions to keep him functioning, to keep him happy.

Waylon drew, again, a little nearer to the book and ran a palm over the page in thought, eyes tracing the expanse of the surface and grazing over the pans and knives that were situated all over the place in an orderly fashion.

Eddie watched in hopeful pride, pleased to see his new acquaintance's curious wonder.

"And," Waylon began, "I can use everything here? Without-"

"But of course, my darling!" Eddie intruded, stepping happily towards Waylon. "The world is your oyster - well, for the meantime. But should you need anything,"

Gluskin loomed closer to within one step of contact, and Waylon tensed. He placed his large hands over Park's shoulders, who stood absolutely still as he brushed them down to squeeze the upper half of Waylon's arm, before he muttered an eerily affectionate, "I'm one holler away."

The lawyer shivered off an inverted chill as Gluskin eventually stepped away again, his strong touch lingering poisonously on his body.

Lisa used to do that, back in the day. She'd done such things less so as the years rolled on, but it dragged Way's mind to a time of virgin spring mornings when the sun was low and he would make tea for them both, Lisa's quiet hands on his arms in a subtle embrace, forehead braced against his nape in a way that would make him pleasantly shudder.

But this seemed so desperately opposite, yet not at all indifferent.

He stood in quiet shock, the closing of the kitchen door, followed by the clicking of a lock jolting him from his rigid state.

That was... odd.

Although he couldn't explicitly put his finger on it, Waylon's mind fogged with heavy disturbance. The interaction certainly didn't feel like their odd little touches here and there. No, this time it felt more... deliberate, intended - and Waylon couldn't help but feel consumed in those hands, in that false affection - consumed in the way that salt water would flood the lungs of a helpless man, crushed by the waves that pulled him under until the salt stang his falling eyelids - until he sunk into the blackness of the underneath, and his death be quiet after the pounding crush.

And the last moments of his life would be ones of lustrous reminiscences upon innocent glories, and although the feeling may not have been quite as pure, it was certainly glorious.

 


	18. Bourbon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post today, but here I am. 
> 
> It's a long one, but I'm sure you will enjoy it.
> 
> Leave a comment, kudos, milk and cookies, the usual. I appreciate it. 
> 
> I love y'all, but I'm tired. I'm out. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> X

 

The estimated time for the meal to be prepared and served was no more than twenty-five minutes (as promised by the book), but with Waylon's utter lack of catering know-how, it took just over an hour for him to finally peer down into his sauce pan and shrug with a, "That'll have to do."

Half of his dilemma was that he had entirely forgotten to taste the damn thing, and it was only as he neared the end (or what he had _hoped_ to be that) that he had (in a great fluster) remembered his fatal flaw and took a spoonful of it, only to find that it tasted of absolutely nothing but hot water and salt.

At least now it tasted like hot water, salt and vegetable stock.

But once again, Waylon shrugged and rifled about the old, cluttered cupboards for two bowls before placing them onto the counter beside the saucepan. He hadn't seen Eddie since he had began, but had heard his colossal footsteps wondering about the house, no doubt with some malicious aim, though he remained strangely upbeat.

Waylon felt a little awkward calling for Eddie, after all, he had never even spoken his name to his face before, so he wasn't about to bellow it from the kitchen. So, feeling admittedly foolish, he knocked sheepishly on the door in an attempt to get Gluskin's attention.

Being within the confinement of the kitchen space had bestowed an odd sensation of mellow reminiscence, basking in the glorious memory of winter baking with Lisa, with no looming certainty of danger. And despite being within Gluskin's confinement for less than a week, those memories seemed somewhat further from his conscience than he so wished. Memories just out of reach, beautiful moments that teased against his fingertips and strained the sockets of Waylon's shoulder as he clambered for them with a longing grasp, but to pathetic avail.

Eddie wasn't quick to entertain Waylon's demand, but he showed up as the smaller of the two placed the empty bowls at opposing ends of the dark ochre table after stripping it clean of it's caked filth and dust with a damp rag.

"I told you to holler for me." The captor spoke, drawing into the table and pulling a chair from under it's belly. He voice played with an unimpressed sighed, as if a little disappointed in Park's sheepishness.

Park however was occupied in retrieving two tall glass of water that fit his hand sweetly. He noticed how the water ran smoother from the pipes down here than they did in the bathroom, and he was rather pleased at its far more tender first impression.

He carried the two glasses to the corner of the table as Gluskin took his seat, and observed the closed and locked door without an element of surprise. They made no attempt to lock eyes, the tension within the air present enough without the additional friction it would add.

"Sorry." Came Waylon's eventual response, blunt and bitter.

Eddie dismissed the apology swiftly and eyed the glass of water. "Have we nothing stronger, my darling?" He spoke in a low mumble, eyes drawn to Waylon's darting gaze.

"Oh! Yes, I mean, there's whiskey. There might be something else but whiskey is-"

"Whiskey will do."

Waylon collected the glasses again, nimble as a waiter as he took them to the sink and placed them on the side, opting to pour them away after a moment of deliberation.

Standing on the balls of his feet, Way reached his hands upward to a high shelf and opened the door. His fingers dragged along the cold glass of the near full bottle, and in turn pushed it further backward into the depth of the cupboard. Park strained, reaching until his arm would no longer allow him any further.

The evident sound of Eddie rising from his seat to saunter over to Waylon had halted him in his efforts, but Way hadn't been hasty enough to turn his back to face the approaching man.

"Here, I can help you."

Something harrowing beaconed from Gluskin's tone that Waylon had become so accustomed to that the sound of it had made him feel almost nauseous by the time it had reached his ears, but Eddie dawned closer to Waylon than the bounds of his own comfort would allow, resulting in a surplus of emotions that were quite the opposite. It almost felt like Eddie had reached him before he had become near to abreast of Waylon, and the lawyer tensed at his looming body's arrival.

Eddie stood not nearly a few inches from Waylon and direct to his behind.

Waylon cowered against the kitchen surface with his palms flat against the cold of the counter with Eddie close to flush behind him and huffing air rhythmically from his lungs, and down the crook of Waylon's neck.

A hand pressed against the lawyer's hip in a bid to still the already frozen lawyer, as Eddie extended his reach to the higher cupboard as Waylon had, and claimed the bottle with evident ease.

If his brain had so allowed, Waylon may have felt a little embarrassed by his inability to complete such a simple task, and to be quite frankly stood up by Eddie - but he couldn't. Not with Gluskin so close, not with the man's hand whispering in hellish faux modesty against his side, pressing just a little harder as the other had reached.

Eddie lingered (bottle amidst his fingers) for a little longer than he should've as he placed the tall glass on the counter but not yet letting go. Waylon remained folded between the coin's width of space he'd been allowed, recoiling in desperation to not touch Gluskin any more than what was implied by the more empowering of the two.

Heart stampeding, Park muttered a cautious, "Thank you," absent from gratitude and tense as barbed wire in an attempt to remain untouched.

Eddie felt the detachment from the words to their origin, and hummed in deliberation. "It's a pleasure."

The words were warm down Waylon's nape, and lingered like the crawl of a spider even when Eddie backed away, and when he did, Waylon found that revolting part of himself clawing for the warmth to return. And like every time prior, it made him sick.

Eddie had resituated himself and so Waylon straightened and unnervingly took the bottle into his clasp where the warmth of Gluskin's palm still lingered. He scooped the glasses closer with a pointed index that shuddered from the aftermath of Eddie's intrusion, and unscrewed the cap off the liqueur; the sweet of the bourbon whiskey had moulded itself between the glass and the cap under the consequence of time, and it took Waylon a couple of attempts and one sore palm to finally get it open. Pouring it into the glasses was the simpler part, as he was accidentally a wee bit more generous than he would have liked, the weight of the full bottle throwing off the blonde's judgement.

But Waylon wasn't about to discard an opportunity to abuse his own sober state.

He placed the glass before Gluskin again, dodged his line of vision as his gullet bobbed against the metal box of his collar, before mirroring the action with his own beverage.

"Thank you - I didn't know you too would be drinking." Eddie uttered in a tone that more closely mimicked a question.

"Oh," Waylon returned, as he made a hurried beeline for the saucepan and bowls.

The two didn't converse beyond Park's cleverly blunt response. He didn't want to press Eddie, the pressure of the appending failure of his attempt at cooking being a far too heavy weight to bare without Eddie's undiminished, aggressive demeanor.

Waylon served the food a small amount into each bowel, before placing them with frail confidence before both Gluskin and himself and taking a seat.

The lawyer had never faired well when it came to failure - he was always set to please, which he supposed that had inevitably taken a positive toll on his career, but a negative one in just about anything else. He wouldn't consider himself to be partially selfless (although in some occasions, that was certainly the case, and thus the root of his many self sacrificial idiocies), but after his graduation, meeting standards had been all he knew.

And now, Waylon was about to fall way below the bar, and it tore him to shreds.

He didn't touch his food, didn't lift his spoon. His eyes were fixed like deathly grips onto the rough of the table in an expression that withheld suppressed shame, but was closer to dread in Park's mind.

Eddie had peered suspiciously at the offering, before tasting it gingerly with the tip of his spoon. His face crinkled like tin foil, contorting in distaste.

"It's not foul, but it's certainly not very nice."

The shame began to flourish and thrive in Waylon's body, morphing with uncomfortable hastiness into a state of mild panic. His eyes snapped up to view the unimpressed expression that Gluskin bestowed. "I can make you something else-" Waylon stammered, his rather juvenile perfectionism urging him to make amends with Eddie's disappointment.

But Gluskin raised a dismissive hand and crooked his mouth. "No, never you mind. I appreciate the effort, although I hope you understand if I don't wish to finish this."

Waylon began to unwind again, feeling his aching muscles cut him a little slack as he deflated. "Oh, I understand alright. It's pretty gross." He added, eyeing his creation and the bowl that cradled it with contempt. "I think I'd rather go hungry."

To that, Eddie chuckled dully and without great amounts of humor. "To that I agree. I don't mean to offend you, darling, you must know that. You have finer qualities than your ability to cook."

Waylon caught Eddie's eyes from the end of the long table, and his chest welled and stirred. It broke as quickly as it had been made. "Or lack of it." The lawyer added sharply, his index finger tracing the dry rim of his whisky glass with no intention yet to take a sip.

"Well, for tonight we can certainly drink a little. At least then we will have something warm in our bodies." Gluskin offered with a hopeful hum to his tone, and Waylon nodded in understanding.

 

 

The first few beverages had been slow, with small talk so miniscule that on many occasions, Waylon saw no means of meaningful response. Eddie lead the conversation - well no, Eddie grew, harvested, processed and force fed Waylon the conversation with a wooden spoon, but eventually after the hot burn of six slow bourbon whiskeys down his gullet the lawyer had began to ripen up to their interactions.

Eddie slurred even before his drink, but Waylon couldn't help but observe it thickening in his cheeks. Waylon had lost count of Eddie's intake, but didn't pay it any mind - he hadn't truly been counting his own, merely as a subconscious habit.

The food before them was beyond cold as Eddie gazed with hanging lids across the table at the bumbling lawyer, whom hadn't been so successful in remaining upright and was leaning sloppily on a propped elbow. The happy buzz of golden drunkenness lathered Waylon as he paused for a moment to finished his current drink and place the empty glass before him.

Eddie's eyes were heavily lidded, but hadn't seemed to dispatch from Waylon's form since they had started. Not that Waylon was unnerved by it, he paid it no mind.

Park paused momentarily, exchanging a thoughtful glance back at Eddie. "What was I saying?"

Grinning, Gluskin shook his head. "About your partner's mother, my dear."

Park waggled a finger knowingly. "Ah yeah. How is she?"

Gluskin paused, eyebrows furrowed as he eyed Park from a distance, leaning back in the creaking wooden chair. Confusion plastered his face, and just as he went to try for a response, Waylon sniggered.

"I was kidding, you loaf."

"Oh." Eddie responded, face deadpanning once again.

"But yeah," Waylon continued. "She's tougher than old boots. A bit iffy when she first met me - wanted a real beefy lady's man for her daughter."

Eddie leaned a little closer on his elbows, resting his chin comfortably against his hands, watching and listening rather intently.

Waylon smirked, folding his legs under the table and meeting eyes with Gluskin. "She would have liked you for her. Well, if you weren't, you know..." Boldly, Waylon raised a finger to his head and pointed to his forehead, whistling an imitation of a cuckoo.

A look of mild offence sullied Gluskin's demeanor as he cocked a brow. "You're rather intrepid when you've been drinking."

Park continued to smirk, maintaining an unstable eye contact with the equally unstable man before him. "You can't deny it. I won't let you."

Reaching for the second near spent whiskey bottle of the evening, Eddie hummed contemplatively. "And if I do choose to deny it?"

Waylon nudged his empty glass into Gluskin's direction brashly as a silent demand for a little more, and Gluskin got the hint. "I'll question you about all those girls."

Gluskin huffed a defeated laugh, sadistically humored. "Will you now?" He spoke with his drink to his lips, the cup capturing the words in a steamy patch of fog in the glass and fading away almost as briskly.

Nodding, the lawyer mirrored Eddie, though not allowing such a generous gulp.

"Well, I've nothing to hide."

Park looked deliberative for a few short seconds, a glass neatly between a set of fingers and the other still holding him upright. He diverted his attention back to Eddie. "Nothing to hide, sure. But have you got something to loose?"

Taken aback by such a question, Gluskin recoiled again. "Why do you ask such a thing?"

"Well," Park adjusted himself to perch a little more upright. "You seem so reserved. Except when you're really not, but even then, you never take things too far, do you? It just makes me think, why? What's stopping you?"

Eddie's face displayed little more than befuddlement. "You've lost me I'm afraid, what are you talking about? I don't know many reserved men that have killed."

"And I don't know many killers that think having relations with another man is a greater sin than murder." Park offered bluntly, throwing a cold glare.

Eddie sighed a laugh, rolling his eyes and allowing himself a heavy sip of his drink. "Now, I never said I believed that. My actions certainly don't back up your argument."

"You chocked me until I blacked out then strung me up naked."

"But I didn't kill you."

"Didn't fuck me either."

"Waylon." Eddie barked sharply in warning, eyes hard on Waylon's face.

Park straightened up at merely the intensity of Gluskin's tone, the terribly predatory way he used it. Somewhere in the lawyer's mashed up wasteland of a drunken brain, he knew he shouldn't interpret the criminals words the way he had so punishably done so in his brain, but the thought stuck. The thought of:

"You've never said my name before. I quite like on your tongue." Waylon offered coyly, eyes set on his drink with a sly grin tugging at his numb lips.

Eddie remained silent, neck deep in the dark of his own thoughts, wholly and visibly consumed by them as he watched Way polish the last of what was left of the glass, before sliding the bottle to him. Without consideration, Park raised the bottle to his lips as took a swig - not that Gluskin at all minded - before sliding it back.

This continued for several more moments, the bottle being passed from end to end like a chess piece on a board of an unwinnable match. Waylon bet that Eddie was good at chess, slick with his fingers.

Gluskin's glare had become far less haunting under the heavy influence of alcohol, the effects of his unwinding evident in his face. He stalked Waylon closely, the way his fingers curled dangerously around the bottle's neck before he bought it to his lips - it corralled Eddie's brain into an unholy place.

Waylon's face crinkled at the bottle. "I'm sick of whiskey, do you have anything else?"

Slow to answer, Eddie returned from the potential pit of sin and responded with a slurred, "Have a look, dear."

Waylon was unstable on his own two legs, and rocked like a little fishing boat on a boisterous sea, sniggering when he toppled over to the counter. Hazily, he reached for the cupboard and prized it open. His eyes scanned the shelf, deciding on a tall, ruby coloured bottle that would be considerably out of his reach.

As expected, Eddie was on his feet to Waylon's aid as soon as he'd sussed the shorter man's minor difficulty, and before Park had processed it, Eddie was behind him. Gluskin didn't touch Waylon's keeling body as he reached up and grabbed the bottle, much like they had far earlier in the evening when they where stone cold sober.

Before him, Waylon was giggling, pressed against the counter and still swaying softly, Eddie close behind and a little more stable on his feet, but no more sober. "Thanks." Park slurred, dragging out his S for a moment too long.

Gluskin gripped the bottle in his hand a little harder. "I've not given it to you yet." Eddie cooed softly, ducking his head a little lower.

Gluskin's breath was warm and thick with the after smell of strong alcohol, but his harsh, deep voice thumped through Waylon's ruined limbs who was practically crumbling before his eyes.

Pressing his hands to the cold surface of the counter, Waylon straighten himself upright against the heavy weight of his drunkenness. Eddie's breath was harsh enough to make the little hairs along Park's neck rise, and Park swallowed hard at their tauntingly close proximity.

_Fuck it._

Leaning back a touch, the lawyer's hungry hands reached behind and fisted two handfuls of Gluskin's clinging shirt, before yanking the man forward to press against the heat of Waylon's back. Compulsion forced Way's lolling body to slump against the surface with his balled palms pulling Eddie flush behind him.

He was met without hesitation, and Eddie clumsily toppled against the lawyer as a result of their equal drunkenness.

Grinning, Waylon shoved his swaying hips back, feeding hungrily on the way Eddie's own felt against him. Eddie was eager too, hands roaming up Waylon's sides to stabilize him, and to push against his skin that was kissed pink in a drunken fluster.

Waylon sighed at a tightening grip around his hips, and the slow and suggestive push of Eddie's hips against his behind. Waylon released the shirt and began to seek support from the counter again, his numb hands knocking the discarded bottle of wine to the ground with a wet shatter, but neither paid it a moments notice.

Gluskin's bleeding want had become blatant under the influential hands of alcohol, triggering an unwinding of his frustrations. The warm fog of his breath returned to Waylon's neck, but not to tease. Parting his lips, Eddie offered a curious kiss against the flesh of his nape to which Waylon hummed, arching his hips before rolling them against Eddie again, an obvious reward for the criminal's curiosity.

Gluskin smirked catching on as quickly as fire to gasoline, pressing another few tentative kisses up the expanse of Waylon's neck before a quiet nip of teeth.

Pausing for a mere second, Way hindered and dipped his hips away, a returning hand to Eddie's chest - before he span on his heel to face the other with his lip caught between his grinning teeth.

Eddie's face wore no evident reluctance, and the rose tint to his scarred face dripped with disgraceful lust, but he nevertheless found his own lips wording: "Nancy boy."

Waylon huffed a disbelieving giggle, shimmying unceremoniously onto the counter and resting backward on his propped arms. "Prove it."

Forcing forward again, Gluskin viciously prized Way's legs apart and situated himself very deliberatively between them. Waylon drew back farther, his legs prying apart without a shadow of reconsideration.

Craning his head up, Park dove for Gluskin's parted lips, but furrowed his brow when Gluskin tilted his head to the side, but yet continued to press himself against him with obvious desire. Waylon tried once more, a little more purposefully, but Gluskin's refusal remained predominant.

Growling in frustration, Waylon pouted and clung to Eddie's waist with his long legs, drawing him closer like a moth to flames. "Kiss me."

Eddie buried his head into the crook of his lawyer's neck and kissed wetly against the skin. Despite the writhe of approval, Waylon deemed it unsatisfactory with a: "My lips. Kiss my lips."

Eddie bit down. Waylon gasped and squirmed, but ran his hands up to the other's hair and tugged, forcing his face to look up at him, and Waylon found himself drowning in those ice cold flames again, being swallowed in the most delicious manner. Yet, he frowned.

"Why won't you kiss-"

"Because I'm not a queer." Eddie growled warningly, but utterly fruitless, as if he thought his own mouth had been merely spouting bullshit.

Waylon rolled his heavy eyes and swayed, wet his lips and grabbed the sides of Gluskin's head. "Shut the fuck up," he muttered in annoyance, before forcing his head to Gluskin's and meeting his mouth.

Eddie hesitated, was maybe even shocked for a moment, but Waylon kissed furiously, ran his tongue along Eddie's lips then nipped the bottom one. He didn't wait for an invitation, and he nudged his palms against Gluskin's jaw and it fell open at Waylon's will.

Park lead the kiss for as long as Eddie would allow him to, pressing his tongue to Eddie's that shot back at the contact, before returning as harshly as it left. Waylon sucked in Gluskin's bottom lip and Gluskin moaned roughly.

The criminal caught up, and had begun readily kissing Waylon back with an equal, crushing passion. The kiss had long perished, and was replaced by fierce tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clashing in starving bites and lips dragging against what they'd left untouched.

Eddie's hands had taken upon the liberty of exploring Waylon further, his harsh hands finding their way under the feather light fabric of Waylon's blouse. The lawyer leaned into the hands with desperation as one clutched the man's hip, the other brushing over the silk of Waylon's tight bralette.

Parting from the kiss, Waylon whined and panted for air, eyes diverting downward to watch the fabric of his shirt crinkle as the hand below slid to his back and unhooked the delicate piece of fabric. It popped apart, liberating Waylon's torso as he pushed his chest up to as an invitation for Gluskin to continue.

Park's hands had since left Eddie's face and snuck down his back, sliding around to press his fingers to Eddie's stomach, and subtly inching south. Gluskin pushed into the touch, opened his mouth around Waylon's jaw and bit down, before running a wet tongue and kissed lips over the small indentations.

Waylon rolled his head back and allowed his mouth to hang as he groaned. Eddie grinned against Park's skin, hands gliding downward to hook his thumbs over the waistband of Waylon's skirt and tug down without any form of warning.

Waylon however, went with it and shifted his weight so that Eddie could successfully remove the heavy fabric, and run his indexes over the red lace of Park's dainty panties. His blouse hung (blessedly) over the lawyer's rigid cock, brushing against the organ in a horrible tease that made Waylon twitch.

Eddie bared back a touch and smoothed his palms over Way's thighs, gripping the soft flesh from underneath and raising them. Waylon hands retreated, supporting his body weight behind him as Eddie manipulated the other's body to suit him.

Delicately, Eddie craned his head down, eyes dark with lust and fixated on Park's face as he lifted a thigh and brushed his cheek along the warm inner side.

_Fuck. Oh, fuck._

Waylon shuddered in lust, his cock twitching at the delicious contact. Gluskin chuckled, basking in the way the lawyer's brows furrowed and unwound at the teasing touch.

Wading a little further into the waters, Eddie hummed and pressed his tongue to Waylon's skin, licking a line up the lawyer's thigh until he reached the knee.

"Fuck, _Eddie_..." Way moaned quietly, Eddie's perfectly taunting eyes flickering like a wildfire.

"Oh, my little slut. Doesn't my name sounds so fitting on your lips?" He cooed, dipping a hand to slide down Waylon's thigh and pause at the base before he were to touch anything.

Waylon nudged his hips into the touch, starved by the press of the other's fingertips. Eddie beamed, spying Waylon with fluttering eyes between his legs. The sickening spin of drunkenness hadn't deceased, and Waylon's head lolled back against the cupboard at it's own will.

A cumbersome hand returned to Eddie's chest swiftly, and pressed promptly against it. Eddie paused to look upon it, to observe a fumbling Waylon struggle to poise himself upright and lower his legs.

"Step back. Let me get down a second." Waylon slurred, foggy eyed. Eddie did as bayed.

Steadily, Waylon slid to his feet and planted himself atop of the clustered fabric of his skirt. His eyes eagerly looked beyond his own erection to keep Gluskin's eyes from doing the same, but he found himself eyeing the man before him with increasing hunger.

Lisa, then, became a brief smudge of reconsideration in the back of his mind. If sober, perhaps he'd have seen her pretty face as anything more than a nuisance, but influenced by alcohol she was merely a speck amidst his distracting lust.

Eddie rocked back drunkenly on his heels, and Waylon sucked in a breath of air before toppling forth against Eddie and fisting his shirt, pushing the great mass of body a handful of steps backward. Eddie watched him with darkened eyes like a vulture, keen and wanting, before gliding his hands to cover the expanse of Waylon's behind, squeezing in between his big palms fondly.

Standing, the two of them swayed and stumbled for footing, especially as Way was thrust excitedly forward. Park too was sly with his hands, and allowed his fingers to pirouette across Gluskin's crotch, fluent like slicing skates against ice. Eddie hummed, pressing into the touch gladly.

"Can I?" Was a ghostly whisper from wet lips between the two, and one that was not answered as quickly nor as boldly as it was asked.

Gluskin's eyes trailed down to Waylon's face, to find the man's almond eyes had already been spying up at him. The lawyer was met with contemplative conflict - but not a shadow of displeasure as Eddie clenched his strong jaw.

Without cue, Waylon latched his slender fingers to the head of the zipper and tugged at a considerate pace.

Gluskin's hand released Waylon's behind and crawled up the spiked hairs that freckled Waylon's nape, raking his fingers through Way's flattened hair before reaching the tip of his head. Laying his palm flat, Eddie began to push - subtly and silently.

Waylon felt his stomach come alive with a blazing fire, allowing his body to be guided instructively to his knees. The hand that conducted was directive and obvious, betraying the contort of deliberation upon Gluskin's brow. But Waylon met the action with enthusiasm, adjusting himself in a drunken swoon to his knees and allowing a returning gaze to Eddie, who bore back expectantly, eyes glassy with both arousal and drunkenness.

There was no finesse in the way Waylon swayed forward to press his lips against the fly of Gluskin's trousers, though it looked to come as naturally as taking a breath. Eddie sighed quietly, fisting into a loosened knot in the lawyer's disarrayed bed of hair.

Waylon's lips parted, mouthing at the protruding bulge experimentally, feeling Eddie twitch through constrictive fabric against the flat of his tongue.

Eddie hummed in annoyance. "Don't be a tease."

Waylon grinned from below him. "It doesn't seem like you mind that much."

Eddie tugged at the lawyer's hair, a warning to keep his cocky mouth from running any further. With a firm grip, Eddie knocked his hips against Waylon's face, who sighed him with equal pleasure.

But Waylon, being as quick witted and shamefully obedient as he was, grinned as a hand released Eddie's solid thigh and brushed it tenderly against the man's fly, trailing his fingers down to trace the hard ridge of Eddie's manhood. Gluskin growled at the taunting cruelty, but sealed his lips as Waylon pinched the zipper between two fingers and tugged down.

Absolutely criminally, Eddie had taken it upon himself to additionally wear underwear ( _shame on him)_ that refused to budge even as Waylon slipped down the other's trousers to rest loosely around his hips, but hang wide open at the front. His underwear was white, surprisingly white for how beige everything else was, but the blessedly tight material was thin enough to contour ever crevice of Eddie's manhood, which twitched rigidly at the attention.

Park sat back on his haunches, eyes dragging over the sheer size of Eddie, even under all that fabric. He swallowed thickly, his lip tucking familiarly between his teeth. The realisation sobered on Waylon swiftly - he'd never done this. Eddie was huge, and Eddie was a criminal, and Eddie was a man, and Waylon was married.

Waylon lowered his hands.

Eddie, huffing in frustration, gripped Way's hair and craned his neck upward to meet the piercing glare that dared him to back down. Ducking, Eddie weaved the fingers of his spare hand to grip the strangling collar, both hands demanding Waylon's unfiltered attention.

Waylon's eyes widened, round and glimmering, scanning the rough face of the criminal, who stared back in hunger.

It was Eddie who lowered himself further to press his lips to Waylon's sealed ones, and lead the kiss with unmistakable desperation which proved to be dangerously infectious.

And just like that, Waylon was exactly where he was supposed to be: kneeling before Eddie, desperate for him to own him, to claim him. Lisa, his sexuality, everything he thought he knew about himself - they could wait.

Eddie kissed differently when he lead. He was stronger, more deliberate and left no opportunity for the other to claim the moment. Not that Waylon wished to do such a thing. And when the two parted after the brief reestablishment, Waylon found himself keeling with an overwhelming appetite for the man.

Eddie grinned with scandal, and Waylon drank it up, his guts turning and buzzing with arousal, more persistent and certain than previously. Eddie felt it too, his cock straining against the fabric with a stronger intent to be released as Waylon set his eyes upon it again.

Park's hands were keener, fed by the knowledge how shameful he was, how terribly whorish he was being. They touched the girth of Eddie beneath his underwear, raked up the underside of the straining member.

Eddie emitted a groan, primal and unsatisfied that made Waylon squirm, spread his legs a little more to accommodate for his own pleading manhood.

Hooking his digits under the waistband, Park tugged down, allowing Gluskin's erection to spring forth and stand less than proudly of its own accord.

An astonished grin spread like a sickness across Waylon's face, a pink tint gracing his cheeks. "Fuck, you're huge." He praised, low and intentionally inadvertent.

Eddie smirked, humming in appreciation - but his smile was fleeting, and wavered as Waylon gripped the base of his cock and rubbed tenderly with his thumb.

Gluskin's cock was weighty, it's thick girth heavy and hot in Waylon's palm and stood straight and rigid.

Park thinned his lips briefly in thought: he didn't know where to start.

Gingerly, Waylon dragged his dry palm up Gluskin's length, before lowing his hand to spit in it sufficiently. With a moment of less than sober thought, he mirrored the action with the other.

Readily, he returned both hands to Eddie, pressing one to his tip and wrapping one around the thick base. Eddie watched quietly, the hard muscles of his stomach twitching in sharp anticipation, his breath steady and audible.

_So patient of him._

Waylon began to work his hand up then back down the way it came, and circled his other palm against the tip, cupping it, gentle pearls of pre-cum slick in his grip.

Gluskin's lips parted with a steady moan, edging his hips into Waylon's hand further. The lawyer peeped up at the other, their eyes meeting, both of them a wound up mess of lust and frustration.

Upon realising his method was working quite effectively, Waylon proceeded to speed up, his hands working a little harder and a little faster on Eddie with delicious grace. Eddie groaned again, feeding the fire that willed Waylon to continue with those skillful hands.

Eddie's hand had long let go of Waylon's neck, and ran both through Way's hair, squeezing and gripping and clenching and tugging at the silky strands - and Waylon leaned into the affections keenly.

Gluskin's face was tinted in pink bliss, an unfamiliar colour to his tone but not at all ill fitting. His breath heightened as Park's fingers teased the base, and he bucked shamelessly into the grip. His own thoughts he felt as if he could not harness, the poisonous concoction of alcohol with the dangerous way Waylon could work his cock with his artful hands proving too challenging to resist, no matter how moral a man he had previously considered himself to be.

Eddie sighed, bottled frustrations leaking over their lid in his tone, his brow knotting above his nose. Waylon's hands were wonderful, but far from satisfactory, and Eddie's nudging hips demanded more.

Waylon, the sharp little blade that he was, of course picked up on it and slowed his hands. "I bet you're glad I'm such a filthy whore now, aren't you?"

Snidely, Eddie growled, rocking his hips into Waylon's fist again encouragingly and muttering a shameful, "Faster."

Park obeyed all too willingly, slipping his hand from Eddie's tip to join the other situated at the base, before working his fists upward and back down before the head. He quickened his pace almost immediately, Eddie sighing in bliss, his fists firm in Waylon's hair and unmoving. The sound thrummed through the lawyer's wasted limbs, his own cock straining and achingly hard against his underwear, but (gladly) ever so slightly numbed from the alcohol.

Eddie was close, not at all willing to hold himself back or save his stamina for humiliation's sake. He couldn't if he'd tried.

"Tell me," Waylon uttered "When you're going to cum."

Gluskin didn't respond, only watched Way through barely open eyes, lips parted and trembling ever so slightly when the lawyer pressed his thumb along the underside of his cock, raked his nails so gently over the top on his way back down. He had the beast unraveling in his hands, literally, and Waylon drank in the moment.

For a second, the lawyer considered pursing his lips around Gluskin's tip, but cowered at the thought in uncertainly. Instead, he returned a palm - the same palm as previously - to Gluskin's tip and cupped, pumping his other fist rapidly along Eddie's member, twisting his wrist skillfully.

Gluskin's grip became greater - too hard - his nails raw against Waylon's scalp, but the view he offered Waylon made up for the stinging pain tenfold.

The harsh lines of Gluskin's face had deepened as it contorted, though his lips loosened, mouth pulling back. The pink hint on his face had intensified warmly, spreading across to his ears and across his neck. Eddie's eyes clenched shut, hips jerking sharply in Park's hold as he spoke a breaking, "I'm-" but needn't had said anymore.

Waylon held still, wrist working as consistently as it had been until Gluskin's hips thrust one last time, and Waylon's palm began to fill with with thick, warm spurts of the other's cum.

Eddie came hard, groaning through his orgasm, body twitching in light spasms that exposed his withheld frustrations. He had needed this, a release.

And Waylon, although ashamed to admit, would have provided it far, far earlier.

The criminal had taken a while to recompose himself, no doubt hindered by his drunken state. Waylon, however, remained achingly hard with a hand full of semen and no great desire to do anything about it. Nonetheless he rose unsteadily to his two feet and stumbled for the sink, leaving Eddie exactly where he was in a post-orgasmic daze.

He rinsed his hand thoroughly - they were too absent of feeling for him to entirely recall what temperature the water hand been, but nor did he really care. Behind him, the fumbled readjusting of trousers, an indicator of Eddie returning to planet earth.

He crept up behind Waylon in a hasty swoop, and ran his large hands down Waylon's hips without a word of warning.

"Lay with me." He all but purred, head behind Waylon's, breath warm on the shell of his ear, exciting his erection a little more than he would admit.

Waylon shook his head. "Nope. I'll be dead by the morning, I'll put money on you being an early bird."

Eddie chuckled warmly, odd and unfamiliar, but Waylon's heart jumped fondly. "I'm so fucking drunk." Waylon whispered to nobody in particular, lolling his head back to rest on Eddie's huge shoulder. He pointed his eyes up to meet Gluskin's.

And in that moment, God damned the pair of them to hell for gluttonously leaning in and sharing one more kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S,
> 
> I was commissioned to write a fic for someone before Christmas, it's only a chapter long oneshot but they want 5000ish words so that might slow this fic a wee bit but it probably won't. You won't see it on this account, I have a second account for commissions and real freaky stuff.
> 
> But anyway thanks for reading! 
> 
> X


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